


The Universe Probably Hates You

by orphan_account



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Author Is Absolute Shit At Updating, Dramatic Irony, M/M, Peter Is A Hot Mess, Peter-centric, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Slow(ish) Burn, fuck timelines, too many references are made
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter has to wonder if it’s his own bad luck dragging Wade down, vise versa, or a clusterfuck of the two men’s individual misfortune combining to create an unbelievable amount of obstacles on their journey to bangtown.





	1. Meet Cute

Peter is a stress eater. Which is more of an issue than one would think, given his nearly perpetual state of anxiousness and his pathetically light wallet. Correction, his _lost,_ pathetically light wallet.

Why he had entered a failing, Chinese hole in the wall with the knowledge that he has less than a dollar in change on his person is a question that doesn’t have a simple answer. Much like the problem of how he’s going to deal with his quickly skyrocketing bill has no simple solution.

Aside from dine and dashing, but that’s only the easiest way out in theory. In reality, Peter is about as inconspicuous as an elephant in a mosh pit. Bearing that in mind, he generously estimates that in this illegal scenario he would make it a full two seconds out the door before his uncomfortably depressed waitress body slammed him to the sidewalk pro-wrestler style and called the police.

However, if he factored in a bit of optimism and a rare sprinkle of good luck, maybe-

“Another round?” Henrietta, as if reading his shifty thoughts, approaches his table with a pitcher of cola and her usual unwavering frown.

He’s proud to say that he only flinches a little guiltily at her sudden appearance, “No, thanks.”

She blinks, annoyance adding some intensity to her downturned lips, “Are you ready for your bill, then?”

Peter shrinks in on himself, head lowering, “Uh, no. Thanks.”

He’s not exactly sure how long he’s been moping at The Flying Duckling. Long enough to crack open a disheartening amount of bad fortune cookies. And long enough to binge the countless servings of chow mein necessary to almost completely numb him emotionally from the day’s earlier  _event_. And speaking of emotional numbing…

Peter hurries to grab her attention as she begins to leave, “Wait!”

She waits, spinning back around with a bothered flourish unbefitting of a waitress with no other customers. She doesn’t know that Peter can’t pay, nevermind tip. Peter gulps at the thought that she just might have caught wind of his broke status the second he looked at the menu prices with utter horror etched clearly into his features.

He pushes back the paranoia and bravely speaks up, “I- Can… Do you serve alcohol here?” He’s going to pretend that he asked that in a voice that didn’t crack like a scared teenager’s, and hope that Henrietta does the same.

She does not, “Not to twelve year olds.”

His mouth tightens into a pouting position that he has long outgrown as she walks away. The shutdown is honestly as offensive as it is for the best. Getting drunk for the first time in his life half an hour walk from home, with no tax fare, and only the lovely, uninvested Henry to keep him in line is a textbook recipe for trouble. Uncle Ben and Aunt May will already be having their cruise interrupted with an unpleasant phone call from the school; He can’t afford to get into any more trouble today.

The universe, sensing Peter’s dilemma, sends trouble strolling out of the night and into the restaurant.

A theatrical bolt of lightning strikes somewhere nearby, thunder following the flash of light and muffling the bang of the front door being forcefully thrown open. A man with a visible gun tucked into his pants and blood lightly speckling his hands and Kinky Boots graphic tee is now standing in the doorway.

Peter’s bottomless appetite is conquered by a strong wave of terror that no one who makes such kitschy entrances really warrants. But tell that to the blood draining his face and the goosebumps forming on his arms. It’s impossibly hard to rationalize with yourself while a gun is in the room.

Henrietta makes her way over to the man, not looking phased in the slightest by the dangerous aura he’s giving off while grabbing large handfuls of fortune cookies off the front counter and shoving them into his jacket pockets. Armed with only a menu, a notepad, and that trademarked frown, she does not fear death. Peter, visibly shaking in the cheaply upholstered leather booth is green with envy. And nausea.

Nausea that grows ever stronger as tall, bloody, and cheesy walks towards him. Uh oh.

He’s going to throw up. And die. What a waste of a perfectly good meal. And life.

The man slips casually into the seat in front of Peter and smiles at him, “Hey.”

 _Is for horses_ , Peter thinks, hysterically, while he watches Henrietta with inexplicable betrayal shining in his eyes as she sets the menu down in front of his impromptu, deadly dinner date and then  _leaves._ She has precisely zero hang ups about abandoning Peter with a  _psycho_ as she slips away into the safety of the kitchen.

Peter would call her a coward, if he weren’t absolutely positive that he would do the same thing in her shoes. Unfortunately, he is in his own thoroughly worn sneakers, inches away from a likely loaded pistol. He can only hope that darling Henry uses the last shred of her will to live to call the cops.

“I saw you through the window,” The guy says, stopping Peter’s heart and tensing every muscle in his body, “looking all angsty and shit. Wanna talk about it?”

This day would definitely be marking a new all time low. Peter now looked pitiful enough to incite concern in violent criminals. He’s going to cry. Right after he chokes back the final threats of vomit and runs home to drown his sorrows in leftover pecan pie.

“Not really,” Peter tentatively answers in a voice that positively  _quakes_ , throwing back his cola like it’s the hard liquor he’d attempted to order.

The man shrugs, opening up his menu, “That’s okay. I can talk enough for the both of us, I _promise._ But! In order for a proper sob story tradeoff, we are going to need a fuckton of booze. And names if you’re feeling especially nasty. Wade Wilson!” He sticks a bloody hand out.

Peter stares at it, his panic attack’s estimated time of arrival speeding up to approximately three seconds from now. Wade retracts the hand without any fuss.

“Peter,” He responds, with very little good sense, but he’s unable to muster up the proper regret with the room spinning in a manner that demands ninety percent of his attention.

“Peter Peter pumpkin eater,” Wade mumbles, closing his menu, “Love it. Now, let’s set down some ground rules for this pity party. One, we’ll keep things fair and square. You tell me your sad shit, I tell you mine. Two, no crying. I’m allergic. You understand. Three, let’s be civil, huh? I don’t  _want_  to empty a round into your pretty face, Petey. But if you poke fun at lil’ old me in my time of need, I will. Capisce?”

The world snaps back into focus. What is  _happening_? Henrietta, who catches the tail end of the tangent looks like she’s wondering that much herself.

“Are you ready to order?” She recovers from the shock like a champ, while Peter is handling the death threat with much less grace. Rule number two has never been in more danger of being broken.

Wade grins at her, “A bottle of your strongest and two shot glasses. Please and thank you.”

Henrietta doesn’t look very eager to pump an unstable man full of alcohol. Still, she wordlessly takes his menu and turns on her heel to walk off at a pace not quite quick enough to be a run, but  _very_  close.

“Are you throwing this pity party to celebrate your alcoholism?” Hysteria is not a good look on Peter, and the several bullets about to turn his head into swiss cheese won’t be either. But shutting up is not an option anymore; If he doesn’t talk, he’s going to either implode or faint.

“You’re only an alcoholic if you drink by yourself,” Wade is mercifully not looking any more or less murderous as he starts opening one of those cookies he snatched earlier, “And believe you me, Petey. Daddy  _needs_  a drink.”

Peter squirms in his seat. Lowering his inhibitions with a lunatic present is not in his best interest. “I’m underage.”

“And I’m pretending I didn’t hear that.”

“Me too,” Henrietta drops off a bottle of Fireball and the requested glasses, making herself scarce again afterwards.

Wade perks up, grabbing the bottle and filling the cups to the brim, “Take a fucking sip, babe.”

Peter obeys without much forethought, lifting the glass to his lips. The whiskey burns his throat something fierce, making it hard work to get the drink down without some embarrassing sputtering. Thankfully, Peter’s quest to shut his brain off takes precedence over his body’s urge to purge the foul tasting liquid. He drains the small cup in seconds.

“Sparkling form! You’ll be a proper day drinking drunk before you know it,” Wade throws his own shot back alarmingly fast, “Let’s get to whining, shall we? You first!”

“Do you- Um. Do this often?” Peter stalls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Wade fills their glasses again.

“Rule number four, no subject changes,” Wade tosses back his second shot in a single gulp, “And no. But I’m avoiding the fucker that I usually vent to. Lucky for you! Now you get this piping hot mess all to yourself!”

Peter is cursed. It’s the only explanation. “W- Why are you avoiding him?”

Wade takes the shot that he had poured for Peter. “Fine.  _I’ll_ go first, you damn nosy Nelly. See, the guy I usually verbally assault is close-ish to my ex. And I’m not exactly sure who his loyalties lie with after… the big dramatic break up. Yeah. So, for the time being, I’m playing it safe and staying as far away as fucking possible from everyone I know. And that’s where you come in, beautiful stranger. Oh shit, does this place have a juke box? I would  _kill_  for some Madonna right now.”

Peter doesn’t doubt it. “Big dramatic break up?” He echoes, digging his nails into his palms in an effort to maintain his artificial cool. If he can keep the guy talking until the authorities arrive, then he can probably avoid dying alone on the floor of a crappy diner.

“Oh! Don’t get me started, Peter,” Wade crack open a cookie and shoves it into his mouth without bothering to read the fortune, “We were together for almost a year. It was a  _great_ fucking year. Like, I’ve never had better sex with a chick. She’s a triple threat; Super hot, super cool, and super bitchy. Absolute perfection. But my dumb ass proposed, with an especially delicious cherry ring pop, I might add, and it all went downhill from there.”

“She rejected you?” Peter guesses, feeling blood bead beneath his fingertips.

“Sure! Why not?” He cracks open another cookie, popping it in and somehow managing to talk articulately while chewing, “So that was the gist of my bullshit. Top that!”

“I will never be hip,” Peter mutters under his breath, forcing his fists to unclench in order to help himself to another shot. It doesn’t go down any easier than the first, but the previous shot has already unwound some of the more rigid muscles in his body, promising to make another mouthful worth the tastebud genocide. “What do you want to know?”

Wade swallows, “Something pathetic enough to make me feel better about myself. Obvi.”

Peter smiles wryly, self deprecation revving up his motor mouth and what little alcohol he’s taken in fooling him into being comfortable enough to not censor himself, “Then you’ve come to the right guy, Wade. I hope you’re not expecting anything original, because my little predicament has happened in literally every slapstick comedy movie in existence. But I don’t eat an unholy amount of chow mein because of any old film cliche. This is one involving  _supreme_ embarrassment and sweaty teenagers.

Wade’s face crumples in sympathy, “Your sex tape leaked. Don’t worry Petey-Pie. It worked out great for Kim K. This could be you big break! Oh, well, I guess it depends. How’s your ass?”

“Spectacular,” Peter deadpans, the dryness of his smile morphing into something more genuine despite his tone, “I don’t have a sex tape.”

“You don’t have one,  _yet_. You’ll go down that dark, erotic road one day. We all do.”

Peter rolls his eyes. It’s probably best to just get it over with. Quick. Like a bandaid. “… I got a boner in gym class.”

He tries to ignore Wade’s cackle that is a clear violation of rule number three, cheeks pinking as he rushes to continue, “While being hassled by my stereotypical jock bully. And by  _hassled_ , I mean pinned against a wall and borderline molested. What the hell else was going to happen? What was he hoping to accomplish?”

“Son of a bitch!” Wade giggles, supportively, “So, Biff Tannen feels you up, Little Petey formally introduces himself to your peers, and then what? Public humiliation in small doses is good for people. It keeps you humble. And it definitely doesn’t justify posing forlornly in shitty restaurant windows.”

The pink in his cheeks crawls down his neck and takes on a reddish tint as the words gather uncomfortably on his tongue, “He had one too.”

Wade’s eyes widen at that golden nugget of information, before they slowly narrow with suspicion, “… And then you guys fucked behind the bleachers, filmed it, and uploaded it to RedTube. Nice try, kid! But I’ve seen more than four pornos with that exact opening. If you’re going to lie to someone, you’ve got to dig a little deeper into your creative side-!”

“Thanks for the advice,” Peter cuts in, dismissing the possibility that interrupting an armed dude is not at all smart, “I’m not lying.”

“Oh really?” Wade crosses his arm, unconvinced, “What’s his name then?”

“Flash-” That is not help his case, at all.

Wade agreed, “You must think me a fool to make your lies so transparent.”

Peter covers his mouth to stifle a laugh that honestly has no place in this risky situation, “Easy there, Worf. What reason do I have to lie about this, exactly?”

Wade throws back yet another shot, “You’re a fucking nerd. A nerd who doesn’t want to tell me whatever it is you're really upset about. I’m hurt, Petey. I thought we were bonding! If you can’t tell a random guy that you’re never going to see again what’s going on, who can you tell?”

“No one. No one needs to know. I don’t even know,” Peter babbles, considering another glass of cinnamon whisky. No, he can’t put his palate through that again.

“Wrong answer. My curiosity is _pulsating_ ,” Wade grins, looking more gleeful than menacing, white teeth gleaming under the disgusting fluorescent lights,  “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. The truth will set you free. All that jazz. Just tell me! What are you,  _chicken_?”

A pitiful groan leaves his mouth without his consent as he covers his flushed face with his hands, “I don’t know what I am anymore.” And that’s the gospel truth. Maybe too much so.

Silence draws out, summoning up tension that soon grown thick enough to paint on. Peter passionately loathes his inability to keep his mouth shut. He dares to peek between his fingers at the man sitting across from him, only to lock eyes and start up an unnerving staring contest that he had most definitely not signed up for.

Henrietta awkwardly shuffles by to drop off the bill, something that only kicks another hole in Peter’s stomach, before fleeing once again. Breaking the eye contact, he watches her escape the suffocatingly charged scene and abruptly decides that he’s had enough.

He stands, more than ready to go home, inhale some sweet or another from his emergency junk food stash, and consult the internet for some answers to resolve his problem-

“Are you having a sexuality crisis?” Wade bluntly asks, right as Peter slides out of the booth.

The question suckerpunches the air out of Peter’s lings in the finishing blow on his sloppily constructed wall of defense. All the moisture in his mouth seems to migrate to his palms as his fight or flight response kicks in with a vengeance- It’s quarrel apparently with Peter’s final fragment of chill.

“Uuuh,” His body begins thrumming with excess, nervous energy as he struggles to come up with a proper response. When in doubt, stick to your roots. “What’s it to you?”

Wade doesn’t seem to pick up on the hostility in Peter’s tone, his lips curling upwards, “I can… help you out. Y’know, if you want.”

Peter attempts to remove some of the defensiveness from his posture with little success, “Help me how?”

He shrugs, pulling out his wallet to throw a few bills on the table. Peter relaxes a bit further. There’s one less thing to worry about.

“Let me say it in your nerdy language. The mutualistic relationship way. Get it?”

Peter raises a single brow at him in a commendable display of bodily control, “You and me both get something out of it? What is the ‘it’? What are we doing?” Wade gets to kill someone and Peter gets to die. That’s probably it. Not a bad deal, his tortured, millennial soul has to admit.

Wade stands up, placing an unexpected hand on the small of Peter’s back (Peter can only hope that the blood is dry by now so he won’t have to explain any fun stains to Aunt May) and walks them both out of The Flying Duckling. Peter can almost hear the heavy sigh of relief Henrietta lets out at their departure.

“Whatever you're comfortable with. I’m a gentleman, clearly. But the endgame is at least subpar orgasms for the both of us. You get some data to put on your ‘Am I Gay?’ tri-fold poster, and I get rebound sex! It’s a win-win, kid,” Wade pauses with a grimace, leaving Peter  _reeling_ , “How old did you say you were? High school, right? That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.”

“Yes they do,” Peter croaks, eyes at high risk for falling out of his head, “Sixteen.”

Wade sucks his teeth, “Okay… Yeah… The age of consent in Canada is fourteen. This is…  _fine_ … What’s your address?”

Peter crosses his arms, a delayed blossom of caution finally blooming in his mental garden currently overridden with kudzu-like panic, “Why?”

“We’ll have to do this at your place. My ex is still crowding mine up with her disapproval and strap-ons,” Wade removes his touch from the back of Peter’s hoodie, cupping both hands around his mouth, “ _Taxi_!”

What.  _What_. Is he doing this? No. Obviously not. It’s not even a question. He would have to be the biggest moron in Queens to even consider sleeping with this older, possibly unhinged,  _bloody_  stranger. He’s not doing it. No siree, no way, no how. This would be a good time for him to start sprinting away at a speed that would make his gym teacher weep with pride. Yup.

… Valuing curiosity over survival is not his most brilliant of traits, but it comes with the territory of being both a teenager and a giant geek. Still. Objectively speaking-

“This is a bad idea.” Peter voices, right as the cab pulls over.

“Yes,” Wade helpfully confirms, whistling as he approaches the car. He stops to spare a final, questioning glance Peter’s way as he holds the door open.

The cab ride over to the house where the only family he has left in the world usually resides gives Peter several things. Such as, plenty of time to regret his recklessness, car sickness, and a damn near heart attack when Wade begins rambling about his profession. That last bit came with the knowledge that his self-appointed cherry popper has killed more people than Peter has hugged.

To summarize, self preservation appears to have eagerly jumped out of the window hand in hand with common sense. Also, he’s bringing a literal  _mercenary_  into his home. And into his bed. His moral code’s debate on which one is worse is inconclusive.

But all of these things are forgotten (repressed) the moment they walk into his house, Peter discovering more pressing matters to stress over upon entry. Like, proper casual sex etiquette. So far, he’s fairly sure that he doesn’t have the barest hint of a grasp on the subject.

Wade takes a delicate sip of the homemade lemonade Peter, ever the gracious host, had poured him seconds after their arrival. Right after he had courageously deemed the house a no gun zone and ordered his guest to leave his pistol on the kitchen counter and wash his hands.

Wade lowers the cup from his mouth and smacks his lips. Not even suggestively. Just in a ‘ _I just had a sip of lemonade_ ’ kind of way. This is going terribly.

“Nice place,” He says, and every socially inept bone in Peter’s body (all of his bones) brace him for the incoming cringey small talk, “Very childhood home chic. It even comes with homemade beverages. Cliche ‘I have loving parents’ vibes all around. I can dig it.”

Peter presumes that conversation is at least a tiny step forward in getting this over and done with, so, naturally, he word vomits all over his hot date. Hot, as in, the police are looking for him.

“More of a ‘I have a loving aunt and uncle’ vibe, actually. My parents died around ten years ago,” He blurts, in the absolute  _worst_  of ways, before attempting to cover up the personal admission with a shrug, “Whatever.” An eloquent save, if he does say so himself.

Wade doesn’t seem to mind the mood slaughtering confession, “I’d unload some baggage on you too, Petey, but all I brought with me is a condom.”

That startles an unbidden laugh out of Peter. Okay then. Maybe there isn’t a formal protocol for this particular type of hook up.

“Has that ever gotten _anyone_  laid?”

“Probably not. Let’s make history.”

“Oh my god,” Peter snorts, unattractively, humor shooing the discomfort away for the time being. He takes advantage of the lighter air while it lasts, “Do you want to… here or in my room?”

“I’m good with anything,” Wade answers the poorly phrased question, “Unless your bed is shaped like a car. Because then me and my conscience will be having some stern words.”

“How dare you,” Peter wrestles with the smile on his face, “It’s a pirate ship.”

“Oh, that’s fine. Sodomy is a part of the pirate tradition.”

“They were all about the booty.”

“We have to stop or a Pirates Of The Caribbean marathon will be non-negotiable.”

“We’re on the same page then.” Now it was time to move onto the next page. The sexy page.

Peter kisses him. Once. Too softly, too quickly. He pulls back, pondering the action with an attempt at a scientific mindset rather than an emotional one. He comes to the conclusion that it was pretty heckin’ gay move. He’s sure Wade would agree wholeheartedly with the assessment if conversation were still a thing that was happening.

And it is not. Wade has pulled him back in for a kiss that is punctuated with an exclamation rather than a question mark. Making out has become priority, bullying repartee off of the roster to make room for some foreplay before those promised subpar orgasms.

Peter notes that he isn’t too upset about the change of plans. He comes up with a chart in his head that’s honestly just a more complicated version of the kinsey scale and bumps himself up a number. Because he apparently does not mind frenching men who have big smiles, pretty eyes, muscles, and gross whiskey breath.

 _Pretty eyes_? He inwardly groans at himself and moves up the chart for the second time in ten seconds. That’s  _very_  telling.

But, if this is an unbiased, fair experiment, he has to consider his past experience with girls as well. What little experience there is, anyway.

He’s immediately unsure of what counts. Certainly not his week long relationship in third grade with MJ. They hadn’t even held hands. His childhood crush on Nichelle Nichols, however, was very real and worthy of moving himself down a bit on the chart. But if unobtainable famous people counted as… variables? Evidence? Whatever- Tony Stark was only half a step behind Uhura and that bumped Peter back up to where he’d been.

He does have a crush on Gwen. That has to count for something, right? Than again, who  _doesn’t_ have a crush on Gwen freaking Stacey? She’s the star in your wet dreams no matter what you identify as. So, that only left one other incident in his oh so extensive background with women.

The eighth grade dance. Mary Jane, again. Giggly, middle school girls had been huddled around one of the cooler barrels filled with cans of cherry Coke, Peter’s poison of choice at the time. Even sweatier and more awkward than he is now, he’d attempted to squeeze passed the conspiring girls with the promise of sweet caffeine the only thing on his mind. On the contrary, the scheming teens had a rather daring game of truth or dare on their brains. Which led to Peter’s lips being assaulted with one of his best friend’s own mouth and inexperienced tongue. It hadn’t been a pleasant first kiss for either of them. Harry had at least found it funny.

He grimaces at the memory, deciding to strike it from the record and chuck it out of his head entirely.

“Not the reaction I was expecting, but,” Wade’s voice knocks Peter back into the here and now, where he realizes that Wade had pulled back and removed both his jacket and shirt, “my ego has been through worse. Like losing that pie eating contest to a seven year old. To be fair, the fuck had a good ten pounds on me.”

“Sorry,” Peter flushes, wiping the misinterpreted grimace from his face, “I- Huh.”

Huh, indeed. Abs are… interesting. And there is something to be said about pecs. And… arms… Peter moves himself a generous three notches up on the chart. It doesn’t feel like enough.

Or maybe it’s too much. Who knows, this could just be body envy. Peter’s love of sweets and anything else high calorie has made it impossible for a muscle to form on his person. His youthful metabolism only just keeps the roundness of his midsection minimal.

“There’s an expression I can work with,” Wade chatters on, “Impressive, right? I’m the full package, too; Never once skipped leg day.”

“Wowza,” He replies, not at all lamely.

Peter had never started leg day. Or any day that involved more exercise than riding a skateboard or doing the absolute bare minimum in P.E. As embarrassed as he is about that at the moment, he knows damn well that fitness changes are not happening anytime soon. Not with the box of Twinkies he has stashed under his bed still mostly full.

And with that, he files the specimen admiration under jealousy and shoves himself back down.

“Now you say something sexy, like; _I don’t believe you_.  _Show me_ ,” Wade instructs, with an offensive falsetto meant to be Peter’s voice, “Or say stop. One of those. That pesky conscience I mentioned early is starting to get pretty damn loud.”

Peter places a hasty hand on Wade’s arm and immediately learns that he’s going to have to move some files around, “No. Uh. Sorry, again. I’m just- Thinking. Too much, probably.” Definitely. Jesus, his brain has reconstructed itself into a laboratory right under his nose.

“I’ll say. I give you some of my finest lip service and don’t even get a stiffy out of you! I was starting to think you were straight.”

“That’s becoming less and less likely,” Peter’s voice shakes a bit with the honesty of the reassurance.

Wade’s smile is small, and far too sweet for the atmosphere needed for a no strings attached one night stand, “Relax, Petey. Just… go with the flow.”

Peter nods, too quickly, “Love it. I love the flow.”

“I fuck with the flow,” Wade agrees, “… How do you feel about some heavy petting?”

“Be the Rocky to my Janet,” Peter answers, more comfortable with making a reference than giving an educated answer that would require him to go into his head again.

“Dammit Janet,” Wade retorts, “I’m gonna need some explicit consent here. It’s my kink.”

Peter’s kink is deflecting emotions with bad jokes, so this is simply not going to work out. He gulps. “You’ll get your consent after we establish a safeword-”

“Aunt Jemima.” Wade establishes, without missing a beat.

“Oh,” He blinks, fiddling nervously with the strings on his hoodie, “Access granted, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Oh my god-” This is going to get annoying real fast, “Full consent fricking given, just stick your hand down my pants already or  _something-_! _”_

“ _Fricking-_?”

Peter shuts him up by dragging him into another kiss.

He hadn’t really been thinking about his technique before. He’s relieved to note that his skill level has seemed to improve since eighth grade, if only slightly. Than again, he’s still not really sure what to do with his tongue. It’s more about lips anyway, right? Otherwise people would just go around sticking their tongues out and gently touching tips with their significant others. That would be a whole new level of hell for the teachers calling out P.D.A. in the halls-

Wade jerks Peter back into reality before the teen can become too immersed, laying a hand on his thigh and leisurely sliding it upwards until Peter has only a barrier of cotton underwear and jeans between Wade’s fingers and his hard on. A hard on that he hadn’t even been nearly aware of- Jeeze, Pete. This is what got you into trouble in the first place. You need to work on control-

A light squeeze derails his train of thought once again. That was… good. Oh. And doing it again was good. Rubbing was also… uh, good. Just. Swell.

Peter exhales a little heavily, breath hitching as he inhales.

“Do you have lube?” Wade asks, too loudly.

He shakes his head, not wanting to talk, or open his eyes, or do anything that could possibly throw the endorphins slowly creeping in off track.

Wade’s hand pauses  _very_  frustratingly, “Are you fucking serious?”

Peter huffs with irritation, eyes opening to form a glare. What, like he’d been planning to bring a guy home tonight? His endorphins have now taken a wrong turn and crashed into a wall. Great. “As cancer.”

The touch disappears entirely as Wade flinches away from Peter with his entire body. He then hops up, moving like he’s been zapped by a live wire as he throws his shirt and jacket back on and slides into his shoes.

Peter’s stomach twists anxiously while he witnesses what appears to be a very sudden change of heart. “Wade-?”

“Alright, up and at ‘em, pudding-pop,” He interrupts, aiming for cheerful but falling flat as he tugs a mildly shell-shocked Peter to his feet, “Any place we can walk to from here to satisfy our deviant needs?”

There was, in fact, a convenience store only a five minute walk away from the Parker residence. Granted, the little shop had seen better days, and had definitely employed better workers, but where else were Peter and his soon to be one night stand going to find lawn clipping scented lube at this time of night?  
  
“This is the one,” Wade somberly nods, holding the container and presenting it to Peter. Who inspects the product with a wildly unimpressed expression.  
  
“I don’t need my asshole smelling like freshly mown grass.”  
  
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”  
  
“The last person who said that to me was talking about meth. I’m all good, thanks.”  
  
Wade snorts, returning the item without further argument. Predictably, he isn’t at all hesitant about grabbing the second weirdest flavor on the rack.  
  
“ _New Car,_ ” Peter reads, torn between irritation and awe, “There is a middle-aged father somewhere having wet dreams about this junk. Next.”  
  
Wade feigns (Peter really hopes he’s feigning) disappointment and whines, “We’re going to be here until the fucking sun rises if you can’t lower your standards.”  
  
It’s Peter’s turn to snort, “I’d say my standards are already pretty low. Just look at who I’m bringing to bed.”  
  
“Rude,” Wade less than halfheartedly accuses, putting ‘That Sexy New Car Smell _and Taste_ ’ back, “Go grab yourself a candy bar, princess. Daddy’s got this.”  
  
“One, you most certainly do not _got this_ ,” Peter accompanies the statement with a hard eye roll, “Two, is that a kink I’m detecting?”  
  
Wade winks, “If it is?”  
  
“Then you’ll be having a very vanilla night, pops.”  
  
“You’re less fun than you look, Petey.”  
  
“And you’re less easy.” Peter retorts, without any real heat, “What’s a guy gotta do to get laid?”  
  
Wade sniffs, primly, “I’m a lady, sir. If we’re having sex, it has to mean something. And in this case, I want it to mean _Rich Tobacco_.”  
  
“You’re hopeless,” He shakes his head at both Wade and the new bottle in the grinning man’s grasp, turning to leave the unholy abomination that is the R-rated isle at a convenience store, “Just pick out something as normal as you’re personally capable of. I’m getting a candy bar.”  
  
Wade’s very loud request for a Slim-Jim follows Peter to the front counter. He’s just relieved that the guy is talking again. The walk here, short as it was, was unbearably silent, save for the harsh pitter-patter of raindrops hitting concrete and everything else. Including the two dumbasses who had foregone an umbrella.  
  
Silence isn’t exactly an art he practices himself, but he hears that it can be considered comfortable. People don’t need to be constantly talking, or so Peter has been told. Frequently.  
  
That silence, however, was decidedly not comfortable. Wade had looked wound up and ready to spring at anything unlucky enough to land in front of his brooding scowl. Peter, in turn, was tense as hell and happy that the gun had been left back at his house.  
  
The trigger of Wade’s sudden change in mood was unclear and had left Peter doing what it is he does best. Unhelpfully overanalyzing; Repeating every move he's made and word he's said in Wade’s presence over and over again until he’s convinced that he’s irrevocably fucked up several times throughout the night. So far, he’s counted seven screw-ups… Eight.  
  
He pushes back his paranoia and puts his energy into appraising the array of cheap, chocolate wonders he’s facing. Choosing only one would be impossible, he quickly realizes. The next thing Peter realizes is impossibly worse.  
  
The cashier is staring at him, flushed from his neck to the tips of his ears, blue eyes wide, and blond brows high enough to be in danger of jumping off of his forehead.  
  
Evidently, Flash Thompson works nights at Skip’s Super Store.  
  
“Parker?” Flash gapes, white chewing gum visible in his open mouth.  
  
“No,” He tries, lamely, before backpedaling with a little head shake, “Yeah, uh, hey… I didn’t know you had a job.” Whitening toothpaste and letterman jackets didn’t buy themselves, Peter supposes, only just managing not to verbalize the thought.  
  
“Wasn’t any of your business,” Flash, even if he is poised like a dude ready to break someone’s nose, isn’t nearly as intimidating with his face’s hue rivaling that of a tomato’s in vibrancy.  
  
Still, Peter can’t get into it with the prick again today, he just doesn’t have the temperament. Or the strength to back up his rage. “Sorry.”  
  
Flash swallows his initial response, posture slumping, and eye contact breaking. He rubs at the back of his neck after a few beats of horrible, godawful silence that is so much worse than what Peter had experienced earlier with the bloodthirsty maniac at his side.  
  
“We should probably talk.”  
  
About the thing, he means. The _thing_ thing.  
  
Peter shakes his head again, “Nah-”  
  
“Yes. We should,” There isn’t much room for argument as their eyes lock again, Flash glaring insistently, “I guess I kinda owe you, like, an apology. Or something.”  
  
So, Peter must be having a stroke, “ _What_?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Flash says and coughs, failing to maintain the eye contact once more, “For- For not… being direct and stuff. Y’know, about what I… think about you.”  
  
It’s a doozy of a stroke, too. “What do you think about me? Aside from the easy target sign I wear around my neck every day, I mean. I hope you’re appreciating it, by the way- I get it professionally cleaned three times a week, just for you. Do you know how hard it is to clean something that only vapid dicks can see? It’s a lengthy process, let me tell you.”  
  
Flash smiles, which is just way too much for Peter to process right now, “I think that you talk too much for such a small guy.” That sounded scarily fond, but Peter is absolutely loving the whole blissful ignorance thing at the moment, so he gleefully ignores the sentence’s inflection. “And I think that I… That I’ve liked you since seventh grade.”  
  
Well, that passionately destroys his attempt at playing dumb. And, in a perfect world, Peter gets destroyed along with the act; That stroke that’s not actually happening finally ending him.  
  
Unfortunately, he does not live in a perfect world, he lives in this one.  
  
And in this world, Wade interrupts the moment by walking up to the register and unloading an armful of differently flavored lubricants onto the counter.  
  
“Oh my god,” Peter breathes, in response to both of them.  
  
“Oh, hush, you big drama queen,” Wade admonishes, not acknowledging the blushing cashier, “I know what you’re thinking, but these are all the best of a supremely odd bunch. I’m considerate enough to let you pick whichever one you like the most, because, you’re right Petey-Pie. It’s your asshole.”  
  
A second, more enthused exclamation is certainly warranted, but impossible. Peter is much too mortified to move, let alone speak. It is only because of this that he has yet to make a mad dash out into the night, change his name, and ride up to Seattle. He only wishes that everyone else present was suffering from the same ailment.  
  
“Who the hell is this, Parker?” Flash is staring at Wade like he is a particularly ugly alien, complexion going from pinkish-red to puce.  
  
“Uuuh,” Peter’s brain has fucking flat-lined.  
  
“Who the hell are you, h- handsome?” Wade laughs under his breath and gives Peter a look, “Did you hear that? Totally floundered for an insult there,” He looks back at Flash, “You, sir, are hot. Like a younger me. Before crack. Kidding-”  
  
Peter banishes his mortification, with assistance from the weirdest spark of jealousy he’s ever felt, and cuts in, “Wade, this is Flash. Flash, Wade.”  
  
Wade gasps, mouth popping open beforehand and proceeding to curl into an amazed grin, “Oh shit, this is Biff?”  
  
“How do you know Parker, _Wade_?” Flash is puffing up like a hooded seal, a look crossing his face that Peter usually only sees the days where the nurse has to send him home thanks to the bully’s temper.  
  
Wade, being him, responds to the acidic tone and twisted expression with elation, wrapping an arm around a still frozen Peter’s shoulders and beaming at the blond, “I’m his boyfriend.”  
  
Flash lunges over the counter. Anarchy follows.

“That was the worst,” Peter decides a minute later, pinching his nose and tilting his head back as he and Wade exit the store.  
  
“Why did he punch _you_?” Wade grumbles, fiddling with the plastic bag carrying the pair’s shoplifted goodies.  
  
“Habit,” Peter shrugs, extremely ready to move on with his evening, and put the knocked out Flash Thompson laying on the filthy floor of the mini-mart behind him, “Is he gonna be okay?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Wade returns, rolling his eyes at the inquiry.  
  
Peter gives him a strict look, which he discovers is difficult to do with your face aiming at the sky, “Yes. The last thing I need on my mind is a guy dead because of me. So-”  
  
Wade waves a flippant hand at him, “Untwist your panties, golden boy. Sexy Biff is going to have a mega-bitch of a headache when he wakes up, but, yeah, he’ll be okay. You’ll still be able to sleep like a guilt free little angel, no worries.”  
  
“Sleep isn’t exactly the first thing I wanna do when we get back,” Peter is running out of time to go about this whole sexual experimentation thing at a comfortable pace. He’s half-dead on his feet, so, horizontal tango or no, Peter will in fact be snoozing within the hour.  
  
“Do I have the honor of that prestigious position?” Wade thankfully plays along, looping his arm around Peter’s and walking the two of them in the direction of the teen’s home.  
  
“Well,” Peter doesn’t sound very alluring with his nose pinched, but he’s not about to hance getting blood on his favorite hoodie for some sexier sounding clumsy flirting, “If we can avoid anymore distractions-”  
  
“Unlikely, knowing me. And getting to know you.You have laughably bad luck, baby boy.”  
  
Peter pushes on, ignoring the painfully accurate character assessment, “I’ll give you the honor of picking any position you want.”  
  
Wade waggles his eyebrows, “You should not have given me that much power. You-” He closes his mouth, eyes taking on a worrying gleam, as he looks behind them and reaches for his hip. Where his gun had been.  
  
Rationally, Peter should pay more attention to the spike of fear that shoots down his spine, but finds himself far more resigned than scared. Hello, distraction. You made it here in record time, old friend. He has to wonder if it’s his own bad luck dragging Wade down, vise versa, or a clusterfuck of the two men’s individual misfortune combining to create an unbelievable amount of obstacles on their journey to bangtown.  
  
Wade bends over, hikes up his right pant leg ribaldly, and pulls out a small pocket pistol from a holster around his calf.  
  
“I said the house was a no-gun-zone,” Peter scolds.  
  
He pays Peter no mind, inspecting the weapon and muttering, “Leg gun, mightier than the hip gun.”  
  
Peter crosses his arms, “Is that why you didn’t take off your pants earlier? Just how were you planning the rest of the night to go?”  
  
“Easy. I was gonna get you too worked up to notice me slipping this little baby out of sight. Maybe slide it under the couch while I suck-”  
  
“You’re incorrigible.”  
  
“I don’t know the meaning of the word.”  
  
He really doesn’t.  
  
Peter should have just attempted to hook up with the normal type of asshole. A guy who wouldn’t ask for names, or numbers. A guy who would do the dirty deed and leave immediately after. A guy who was a shitty human being simply because he used people. A guy who wasn’t a highly dangerous fucking _mercenary._  
  
“I don’t know if I can have sex with you,” Peter snaps, sounding more honest than angry.  
  
Wade shrugs, “Well, the law says no. I say please. What do you say?”  
  
He meant what he said about the not knowing, “I reserve the right to make my decision after you tell me why you just whipped out the leg gun.”  
  
“To kill someone.”  
  
Peter closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose, “Elaborate?”  
  
“Sure thing,” Wade isn’t looking at Peter anymore, his eyes are glued to whatever the hell it is behind them, “See, I’ve been breaking a lot of previously made contracts this week, which seems to be pissing off the people who hired me something fierce. Those pricks have been sending deadlier pricks left and right to off me for a few days now. And right now we have a large, deadly prick swaggering down the sidewalk with a British Army Browning L9A1 in his pocket. Or he could just be pleased to see me.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Peter’s anxiety skyrockets. The Prozac in the medicine cabinet of his bathroom is suddenly looking very necessary and worth the splitting headaches the previously loathed pills give him.  
  
“C- Can’t we just run?”  
  
Wade whirls them around with a guffaw, raising his arm with the gun in his hand, finger resting on the trigger, “Pussy.”  
  
Peter’s head swims as he watches the distant silhouette of a man who has in all likelihood been living the Gaston Legume lifestyle since he was in diapers grows closer and closer. The man raises his gun, mirroring Wade’s stance, sans the teen on the verge of a panic attack hanging on his arm.  
  
This is not good, Peter’s brain oh so helpfully let’s him know as his chest constricts painfully.  
  
“Hey, Gaston!” Wade (the joke thief) calls out and cocks his pistol and holy canoli people are going to die.  
  
All of the air rushes out of Peter’s lungs in a sharp exhale as he acts without any assistance from his chemically unbalanced flaming hot mess of a mind.  
  
He slams his body into Wade’s, intending to knock the merc over, but (what with his scrawny everything and all) only manages to push him a good foot to the side as he fires. His aim is skewed, thanks to Peter’s interference, but a shot from Gaston’s gun stops Peter from checking where Wade’s bullet ended up.  
  
On the bright side, he instantly knows where Gaston’s is.  
  
“Aw, shit,” Wade curses as Peter crumples to the ground, cradling his bleeding neck. “Shit shit shit,” He continues, dropping down in front of Peter and prying his trembling hands away from the injury. “Fuck. Okay. God dammit. Okay! It’s just a graze, Petey. Shake it off while I go chase down that big bad bear and feed him his teeth, okay? Bitchin’! See you at home, pumpkin-”  
  
Peter has just enough usable energy to grab Wade’s arm and say, “Don’t.”  
  
Then he starts crying. Gross, ugly crying complete with fat tears and hiccuping sobs. Because how else does one seduce a man?  
  
Wade rubs at his face, looking as distressed as Peter felt, “Zoinks- Alright, got it. Putting a bookmark in the murderous revanchge agenda for the moment. Um,” His hands hover unsurely in the air around Peter, “Right. Fuck. What happened to rule number two? I’m gonna break out in hives, kid. Shit…," He gulps, "No, no. I can do this. No problemo.”  
  
He pulls Peter up off the ground and begins to half carry, half drag him down the sidewalk, “You can just… keep... crying or whatever, I’ve got this.”  
  
Wade maintains a steady stream of panicky rambling all the way to the front door of Peter’s house. Which Peter hadn’t bothered to lock, because he apparently really wanted to die tonight. That was the only reasonable conclusion a rational person would come to if they viewed all of his actions on this fine Monday.  
  
“Okey-dokey, let’s get you on the couch… Good. Oh, not good? That is not a happy face. Lucky for you, I have the cure for unhappy faces! Not on me, but I’m sure there’s a fucker selling ecstasy somewhere around here. But if I leave you alone to find a drug dealer, what’s gonna stop you from drowning in all of those tears? They’re going to flood the living room any minute now Alice In Wonderland style. I'd appreciate the reference at any other time, but now?” Wade grabs Peter’s wet chin to turn his head and get a proper look at the wound, brown eyes wide and nervous as they survey the damage, “Babe, I’ve seen paper cuts do worse. I mean, yeah, you’ll have a scar. But chicks dig scars! I dig scars. Once that baby heals up and leaves a mark, I will absolutely bottom for you- Won’t be able to help myself, I’ll jump your goddamn bones, you bad ass.”  
  
Peter has never felt less like a bad ass, blubbering in front of someone, with a paper cut of a bullet wound on the side of his neck. He says as much, only with more humiliating stuttering and gasping than his thought had contained.  
  
A sad look crosses Wade’s face, “You think I didn’t have a fucking breakdown the first time some asshole shot me? No, correction, shot _at_ me. I didn’t even have the excuse of an injury to justify the freak out. You’re doing better than I was, too! No screaming! Gold star, Pete!”  
  
Peter's vision eventually clears up enough for him to see Wade's blanched face. The man is terrified, he realizes, with only a flicker of amusement that is quickly exstnguished by the flood of guilt that nearly makes a new wave of tears hit. He's having a full blown goddamn panic attack and forcing a dangerous stranger to take care of him. Where are his manners- Aunt May would be appalled.   
  
He furiously wipes at his eyes, still not quite managing to stifle the pathetic sniffling, “... I’ll s-save that for the bedroom.”  
  
Which is the wrong thing to say to a guy who nearly murdered someone in front of you five minutes prior. Peter knows this. He also knows that morals can wait until morning and that Wade will not be there in the morning and that he is completely avoiding confrontation. Fucking sue him.  
  
Wade looks immensely relieved at the conclusion of the waterworks, “Well, what are we waiting for, you silver tongued devil?”  
  
Without further preamble, the two are on the staircase, hands joined in a way that feels far more desperate than anything on Peter’s end as they enter his room and flop down on the full mattress in sync, shoes and all. Twin groans of contentment leave the pair in unison. The second heads land on pillows, it's curtains for the both of them.  
  
Peter’s eyes are shut, and he’s about a three second drive away from unconsciousness when he impulsively whispers, “So, anal?”

“Totally,” Wade mumbles, and Peter snores.


	2. Are You Telling Me That THE Peter Parker Isn't Living The Good Life? OOC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the comments- I thrive on validation and attention of any kind, so please don't hesitate to leave more! <3
> 
> Also, it's probably for the best to just ignore the chapter titles. They will not be improving.

It is only five am when Peter’s earsplitting alarm blares from the clock atop the nightstand. The second he is yanked from slumber’s sweet grasp, dread and exhaustion have him in their unkind clutches, making him consider a quick, therapeutic cry before beginning his day.  
  
Four hours of sleep is not enough. He knows this, knows the dangers of sleep deprivation and how unhealthy the habit is. He’s known for two years. And every single morning in these past two years, he has promised himself to hunt for some time on his schedule and squeeze in at least another hour of precious, much needed shuteye.   
  
This morning, he doesn't have the energy to lie to himself.   
  
Peter swallows a whine and forces his eyes open, hand rushing to end the unholy, two hundred decibel ringing with a quick press of the snooze button. The unexpected blanket hogging space heater next to him groans his relief at the end of the wailing, snuggling into Peter's side. Great.   
  
“Why are you in my bed?” The question comes out raspy and only slightly less annoyed than he’d been aiming for.   
  
There’s a long silence from the bundle of warm sheets glued to Peter, before the leech slurs, “I could ask you the same question.”   
  
“Sure,” Peter agrees, futilely attempting to blink away his fatigue, “And if I was in your bed, the question would even make sense.”   
  
An unconcerned hum was followed by a tired, “Wouldn’t that be something?”   
  
He pries the nuisance off of him, sitting up and rubbing at his face, “ _Johnny_ -”   
  
“Shhhhh. If we’re not having gentle morning sex, I refuse to be awake before eight. G’night.”   
  
Peter is tempted to argue, but a quick glance at the clock tells him that he can’t afford to waste another second trying to get a straight answer out of Johnny Storm, let alone the hour the task would take.   
  
With an unhappy noise directed at his roommate, he gets out of bed and trudges grumpily to the bathroom. The thought of a long, hot shower helps put one foot in front of the other, but as soon as the door shuts behind him he is forced to embrace the reality of his usual three minute, lukewarm affair. He strips out of his sweaty, torn suit and starts running the water.   
  
If Johnny wasn’t such an ass, the two could be living someplace nice enough to have a half decent water heater. But _noooo_ ; All dinero in the Storm account is not to be splurged on anything other than clothing, fancy hair products, impromptu overseas vacations, and whatever else impresses his lay of the day. What’s the point of a nice home? He rarely brings his fans back here for morally questionable hook ups, and when he does the unfortunate soul in question is too… _preoccupied_ to notice what a shithole the one bedroom apartment is. Or the two beds in that one bedroom.   
  
But, hey. There weren’t many places where rent could be paid in monthly social media photography sessions and the promise to wed if the pair are still single in their thirties. Peter doesn’t really have room to complain. Not that he’s going to let that stop him.   
  
As he steps under the tepid spray of water, absolutely _nothing_ can stop him from grumbling bitterly about all of the blond’s faults. Well, some of them. It’s only a three minute shower, after all.   
  
He ends the unsatisfactory bitching as he dries off, wraps the towel around his waist, and exits the pointedly _un_ -steamy bathroom. He immediately notices the girl sitting up on Johnny’s bed, her phone screen the only thing lighting the otherwise dark room.   
  
“Yo,” He says, not awake enough to regret his stupid greeting.   
  
“Hi,” She returns, less lamely, pulling the comforter more tightly around her presumabley bare chest, “You must be the fiance.”   
  
It is far too early for shenanigans. Still, Peter sighs a reluctantly accepting, “Come again?”   
  
Her big dark eyes narrow in confusion, “You’re Peter, right? Ace as hell, super supportive of Johnny’s sex drive. The open relationship fiance.”   
  
This is about the time he glowers at Johnny and snaps at him to stop involving Peter in his made up stories about his homelife for his fans to feed to tabloids. However, the troublemaker has left his spot in Peter’s bed. The sizzling of bacon coming from the kitchen leaves little mystery as to where the bastard has gone.   
  
“Nope,” He tells the young woman with a deep breath, “I’m- _We’re_ not engaged. I’m, like, twenty for Christ’s sake. And I’m not asexual, either-”   
  
“You might as well be!” Is shouted, cheerfully.   
  
Peter’s hands clench into tight fists before he relaxes them, walking over to his shabby dresser to pull out a suitable outfit, “-Johnny’s just a huge, flaming fuck with a sense of humor that’s about as appropriate as the rest of him.”   
  
“New twitter bio.”   
  
He slams a drawer shut, with just enough power to break the crap piece of furniture beyond repair. The sound of the cheap wood crashing into more cheap wood overtakes the apartment until the entire dresser is just a silent, sad heap of old clothes, pallet, and screws on the stained carpeted floor.   
  
“Oh shit,” The girl breathes, and Peter pales.   
  
“I- I work out,” He stutters, ignoring his roommate’s laughter and very skillfully avoiding flashing the stranger as he swiftly dresses.   
  
“I’ll bet,” She replies, attention shifting back to her illuminated screen. Peter only just refrains from offing himself for being such a careless idiot as he leaves the bedroom.   
  
Johnny is standing behind the counter, flipping bacon in the pan that is held in his showboat-y, fiery hand. He’s looking irritatingly wide awake and unrumpled, short curls appearing suspiciously styled and face clear of stubble. He’s also, of course, naked, save for the beloved, untrue ‘ _I Don’t Cook On Days That End In Y_ ’ apron.   
  
He doesn’t flinch at the scowl Peter’s sporting, his eyes crinkling as his lips split into a charming smile, “Good morning, dear.”   
  
Peter is decidedly uncharmed, “Eat a dick.”   
  
“Yours?”   
  
Peter doesn’t need to look up from the worn out shoe he’s tieing to know that there is a wink punctuating the word.   
  
“Nope, my vore fettish only lasted for a very unexpected and weird ten minutes. You’ll have to get your rocks off with a freakier fella than me, Doctor Lecter,” He’s only staying somewhat civil for the sake of not making the woman in their house think he was a complete psychopath. And for a piece of bacon.   
  
“Gross,” Johnny extinguishes his hand, “Where are you rushing off to, lovebug?”   
  
Peter shrugs on his bookbag and rolls his eyes, “Where do I go every weekday morning?”   
  
“... I never know. To visit your mistress?” Bacon is placed onto a plate that Peter doesn’t hesitate to approach.   
  
“You’re the mistress,” Flavorful meat is placed between his teeth, the savory grease on his tastebuds awakening the famished, angry beast he’s turned his stomach into, “Why are you up?”   
  
“To see you off, hun,” Johnny diligently sets the dirty pan down on top of the mountain of filthy dishes filling the kitchen sink, “Also, your alarm went off again and it may now be slightly… irreparably… destroyed. Apology bacon was an order.”   
  
Peter groans at the news, grabbing his house keys off of the counter along with a handful of the delicious expression of regret, promptly stuffing his face disgustingly, “How thoughtful. You’re buying me a new one before tonight or I’m telling fox news about the subliminal messages your P.R. manager puts on your cereal boxes.”   
  
Johnny removes the apron, tossing it among the clutter on the floor and walking back towards the bedroom, “You can break my heart and mock my love, but you will not threaten Spicy Storm Flakes™ in this house. My publicity team will lynch you.”   
  
“I don’t think you’re publicity team is capable of much after they okayed a cereal measuring at a hundred thousand scoville units. How many sales do you make a month, again? Three?”   
  
“I start every morning with a piping hot bowl of Spicy Storm Flakes™. Get your flame on.”   
  
“Just admit that it sucks, don’t use your commercial voice with me. Where has the romance gone?”   
  
“How would I know? I’m just your _mistress_ ,” The bedroom door is quite theatrically slammed. And that is more than enough Johnny for one day, he and his headache agree.   
  
Peter leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him and glancing at the time on his phone. He curses at himself for getting distracted and wasting costly seconds on breakfast and banter. He’s going to miss his bus if he doesn’t start sprinting _now_.

Three dirt cheap campus coffees and two classes later, Peter has retained about twenty percent of the information hurled at him during lectures and almost none of the caffeine. Thanks, super metabolism.  
  
Staring into the now half empty, steaming styrofoam cup, he wonders if he would get better results injecting the remains of the bitter beverage directly into his veins. Pondering the idea carefully, he slowly realizes how dumb it is. The bus pulls up before he can cringe at himself too harshly.   
  
He drags himself up the short flight of stairs and flashes his metrocard at the shrewd driver. He elects to sit rather than stand, muscles aching and eyelids drooping. He needs the fifteen minute nap the ride to work will give him, pitiful little old lady be damned.   
  
Said little old lady, overwhelmed by the flood of people filling the bus like sardines in a can, is stuck standing with a resigned sigh and a tightening hold on the cane in her hand. Peter’s sigh matches hers as he places all of his weight back on his dead feet and offers her the seat. Her thankful smile, while rewarding in its own right, is not nearly as rejuvenating as the nap would’ve been. He counts the decision as a win for the greater good and a loss for Peter Parker; As most of his decisions seem to go nowadays.   
  
He slides his hand into an unclaimed hanging strip and holds onto it for dear life, not quite pouting as he fantasizes of what could have been with his ass firmly planted in the uncomfortable plastic seat, eyes closed, and consciousness gone. The last of his coffee is drained with a defeated gulp.   
  
His phone is buzzing in his back pocket before he can really get his moping going. Aunt May.   
  
“‘llo?” Peter’s not sure if his English is at all decipherable.   
  
“Peter! Good morning! How did the- the um… optical… illusion-”   
  
“Intermediate Optics.”   
  
“Right! That! How was the class, sweetie? Did you remember to record the lecture? I’ve been emailing with that mechanics professor you had last semester- The one that wears knee socks over his pants? Well, he says that playing lectures in the background while you study really helps you learn the material.”   
  
Her easy energy is infectious, giving Peter the strength to at least attempt a proper conversation, “Why are you and Professor Faraj talking? You met once. Four months ago. And he spilled vegan soup on you.”   
  
“He was very apologetic! And health conscious. You would be wise to start thinking about your diet, too, you know. Every time I see you, you’ve lost another five pounds! Does that boyfriend not feed you?”   
  
“I’m fully capable of feeding myself, Aunt May. And Johnny’s my _roommate_ -”   
  
“I’ve watched BBC Sherlock, Peter. I know what that’s code for. You don’t have to lie to me- Now, I don’t exactly approve of you having such a dangerous… partner. But-”   
  
_Nope_.   
  
“You’re changing the subject,” He accuses, face pink as he glances paranoidly around the bus for any engaged listeners, “Professor Faraj. Are you seducing my Theoretical Mechanics teacher, you silver fox?”   
  
A surprised laugh bubbles out of her. Peter smiles at the familiar sound.   
  
“Not exactly. We mostly just trade recipes and gossip about the cast of Days Of Our Lives. You have him to thank for the lemon squares last week.”   
  
“They were terrible,” Peter remembers.   
  
“Organic,” She corrects, “And you’re a big fibber- You inhaled six of them in under two minutes.”   
  
“It was a terrible two minutes.”   
  
“Picky, picky,” She clicks her tongue, “Well, if you can stomach my alfredo, you can come over for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Are you free?”   
  
“Oh,” He frowns, “Sorry, but I can’t. Mr. Stark is supposed to be back in town, so I’ve got to be at the tower from five until late tonight.”   
  
She makes a noise. One of those noises she makes every single time his internship has been mentioned this past year. “Is that man going to start paying you anytime soon? You’ve been working with him since your first day at Empire State- He is taking advantage of you, Peter.”   
  
_If only_ , “I have to graduate for him to give me a paying position. I really don’t mind it, Aunt May. I’m learning a lot, I’m getting credits for it, and Mr. Stark is great and a genius and-”   
  
“Yes, yes, I’ve read your diary, I _know_ ,” Another noise, “I’ve got to get some grocery shopping done. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”   
  
“Okay,” Peter feels like he’s being scolded, “I love you.”   
  
She sighs, “I love you, too. Have a good day, sweetheart.”   
  
“You too,” He ends the call, smothering his guilt as the bus pauses at his stop.   
  
Peter hasn’t seen his aunt in over two weeks. He is one hundred percent positive that if he cancels on dinner one more time, she will take the subway into the city and break into his apartment. And then she’ll see what an utter sty it is and have a stroke at the knowledge of her nephew living in such horrible conditions. And then she’ll die. Which means that Peter will have killed her. And then he’ll be alone and he’ll have no one to blame but himself for murdering the last person in the world who loves him unconditionally-   
  
He’s going to clean when he gets home. Somehow. Maybe forgo the study hour and grab a broom. That is, if they have a broom. He forgot to record the lectures, anyway.   
  
The Daily Bugle Building is just a short walk from the bus stop, so he is opening the front doors, waving to the bored information desk secretary, and entering the elevator much sooner than he’d like. The padded, spinning chair patiently waiting behind his desk is the only thing that motivates him to push the button to his floor.   
  
A chorus of maddening dings sound as the lift rises past each floor. The repeating, single note ring makes it difficult for Peter to think about anything other than demolishing the speaker embedded in the wall, for his sake as much as all of his fellow employees who like their sanity.   
  
Before he can leap into action to end the office’s suffering, the doors open and Jameson’s face is revealed like a cheap jumpscare. Peter is a brave hero, so he only flinches a lot.   
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” He hisses, jumping to the back of the elevator and grabbing his rapidly thumping chest.   
  
“No religion in the workplace, Parker,” J.J. barks. Or says normally. Peter can never tell. “Blue jeans and a t-shirt again! Does it look like a casual Friday to you?”   
  
Peter waits to make sure it is indeed one of those rare questions of Jameson’s expecting an answer, “... It’s Wednesday.”   
  
“Good God, it’s a miracle,” The hypocrite crows, motioning insistently for Peter to step onto the floor and follow him, “The boy has an ounce of sense! I would give you a raise for that little nugget of genius if I wasn’t about to fire you for always looking like such a damn hobo in my building!” A thick file is handed to him as the two continue to stride down the hall, “I want all of these photos cleaned up and ready to print before three. Betty’s got a list waiting for you on her desk of all the events you’ll be attending this month with that camera of yours- Pick it up as soon as you finish! I fired the newest intern and she took me seriously, so you’re on coffee detail until further notice. If there is even a drop of soy in mine, I will throw it all over that disgusting t-shirt! Clear?”   
  
“Uh-”   
  
“Wonderful! Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Stop standing around and hop to it!”   
  
He hops. Well, he manages to start his work day at a pace slightly faster than a zombie’s trudge. An accomplishment, truly.

Back at the apartment, several hours later, Peter is schooling his body to not tremble from overexertion. He's also glaring over the armful of dirty clothes piled up to his nose at the gaping man standing in the open front doorway.  
  
“It’s my birthday,” Johnny eventually speaks, shutting the door behind him without looking away from the living room, “I was hoping you’d wear the lingerie I bought for you last Christmas, but this is just as good.”   
  
“Seeing the floor is equal to seeing me in lace?” Peter shoves the foul smelling clothes into a laundry bin, trying to catch his breath without gaping like an asthmatic. He should not be this worn out; He’s doing year long neglected chores, not holding up the planet with his pinkie finger. “I’m offended.”   
  
“It’s not my birthday,” Johnny mumbles, putting his shopping bags down on the kitchen counter, “Does this mean you’re finally accepting your house-husband responsibilities? Good start, but you didn’t welcome me home with a margarita. Or a kiss. I’m willing to forgive you if these two things are remedied immediately.”   
  
“Unlike you, I have a real job,” Peter snorts, putting the bin by the front door to run to the complex laundromat later, “So, I am not, nor will I ever be, you’re house-husband.”   
  
Johnny plops down obnoxiously on the cleared off couch, “Acting is a real job! It’s what pays for the roof over your head, ungrateful! And part-time photojournalism isn’t exactly what I would call a _career path_ , especially when it pays just above minimum wage.”   
  
“Screw you,” He swats the sneakered feet off of the coffee table, “I meant with Tony.”   
  
“Mm. The other woman,” Johnny says sagely, the comment bringing some telling warmth to Peter’s cheeks, “Well, he hasn’t given you a dime, so I’m claiming the sugar daddy title.”   
  
Peter pulls a face, “That isn’t going to make me fetch you that margarita.”   
  
“What about the kiss?”   
  
He rolls his eyes, spotting his bookbag easily in the pristinely clean room and grabbing it, “As much as I’d love to, I’ve got a date with a bit of tech I’m running late for. Don’t wreck the place.”   
  
“Stay for a while,” Johnny whines, attractively, “I don’t have anything else to do today, and we never hang out anymore; I’m being _neglected_. And I totally saved your ass this morning, so you owe me some quality bro time.”   
  
Peter quirks a brow at him, lazily (exhaustedly) forcing his feet into his tied shoes, “How exactly did you save my ass?”   
  
Johnny quirks his own, sassier brow, “A certain arachnid left his blood crusted super suit on the bathroom floor. Gross, by the way. Jinae saw it.”

Well that’s certainly one way to banish the weariness from his unhealthily slouching body.  
  
His breath catches in his throat. The room tilts. His body seizes up, tensing like a guitar string a pluck away from snapping. _Shit_ .   
  
It’s over. Peter’s ruined everything. Unsurprisingly. Secret identity flushed down the toilet, thanks to some hazy morning grogginess and his remarkable ability to fuck everything up, given enough time. He’s going to have to move Aunt May out of the country. With the pitiful three digits in his bank account, he isn’t quite sure how he is going to manage it. But he _will_ , because no one else is going to suffer because of his impossibly dumb ass ever again-   
  
His mind is racing and his knees are humiliatingly close to legitimately quaking when Johnny opens his mouth again, grounding him, if only slightly, “Relax, Peter. I convinced her you were in a cosplay fight club.”   
  
… If that isn’t _the most_ ridiculous thing Peter’s ever heard- “ _How_?” His voice breaks on the word.   
  
White teeth glimmer in the million dollar smile that is responsible for the majority of the conceited blond’s countless brand deals, “Brilliant acting goes hand in hand with being fantastic at lying your ass off. Lucky for you.”   
  
Peter let’s out an unsteady, but appropriately rancorous sigh, moving to leave the apartment and ignoring the childish noise Johnny makes at his departure, “Yeah. Lucky me."

After going through the usual, rigorous technological security checks, Peter enters the large workshop in Avengers Tower. His heart sinks as he takes a few steps into the chaos. It appears to be disappointingly void of any other human life.  
  
Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time Tony has canceled on him. More like, the eighty-fourth. Yes, he counts.   
  
“Hello?” He hesitantly ventures, thoroughly examining the room for any sweaty, grease covered scientists.   
  
Dummy whirs past him at an alarming speed, a wrinkled piece of paper in his claw. The note is obviously meant for Peter- There are very few others that dare to enter the cluttered mess of a room; Something about frequent explosions and constant classic rock acts as a perfect people repellent. Peter doesn’t mind it- has grown to like it, even.   
  
When Tony’s here, at least. The workshop is unnervingly empty without his prominent presence, leaving Peter feeling inexplicably unsatisfied and awkward in the large space.   
  
The bot is circling him now, still very excited and very fast. There’s no easy way for him to get his hands on that note without a chase. So, with only a little frustration and a lot of laziness, he tilts his head slightly upward.   
  
“Jarvis?”   
  
“Mr. Parker,” The A.I. greets, “How can I assist you?”   
  
Peter has been around the disembodied voice for far too long to still be unnerved by him. His body gives a little contradictory shiver.   
  
“Do you know what the note says?”   
  
“Not exactly. It’s a generic excuse, in all likelihood. Ms. Potts came and collected him forty-seven minutes ago,” Jarvis isn’t rolling his eyes, that would be impossible, but if he could Peter’s assuming that he would be rolling them _hard_ , “He can be expected to be giving ineffective longing looks at her until later tonight.”   
  
Peter’s heart clenches uncomfortably, “How much later?”   
  
“Ten p.m. at the earliest, I’m afraid.”   
  
It’s a damn shame. Peter had a few ineffective longing looks of his own he’d been hoping to give.   
  
“Great,” He mopes, maturely, “Should I just go, then?”   
  
“If you’d like,” Jarvis answers, not phased by the petulance (probably used to it by know), “But I will remind you that you have full access to the workshop with or without Sir present.”   
  
Which is the Jarvis equivalent of Heather Chandler belting out, ‘ _Welcome to my candy store_!’ And, in other circumstances, Peter would lose his McFreakin’ mind at the offer and thoroughly take advantage.   
  
However, he is up to his chin in homework assignments and has a couple of classmates to pester for recordings of today’s lectures. He simply hasn’t the time to geek out in Tony’s lab… completely unsupervised… with all of the materials he could dream of at his fingertips- Nope. Cannot.   
  
Peter growls under his breath angrily shutting his eyes and ruffling his hair, “Can’t. Love to, but can’t. Tell T- Mr. Stark to please just text me next time-”   
  
Dummy whirs sadly. Peter regrets the words.   
  
“… Or not,” He continues, taking the paper from a finally motionless Dummy, “Thank you.”   
  
The bot perks back up, zooming to the other side of the room with a litany of what Peter interprets as pleased noises.   
  
_‘Dinner with A-Team upstairs if hungry. Be here same time tomorrow.’_   
  
He whines as he processes the message conveyed in the exceptionally messy handwriting. A delicious meal home cooked by Captain America himself and a proper table dinner with the majority of the Avengers. In other words, yet another thing on his bucket list that he can’t afford to knock off tonight. The world is cruel.   
  
“Dammit,” He quietly seethes, flippantly considering just dropping out of college. For about the third time this month. He won’t, _duh_ , but the knowledge that it’s his choice is as comforting is as it is masochistic.   
  
“Shall I let Captain Rogers know to not make an extra plate?”   
  
“Yeah…,” He sniffles, before his eyes narrow, “Wait, so you _did_ see the note?”   
  
Peter has never heard the A.I. fumble before now, “Erm, well. A little. But DUM-E was very eager to complete its task-”   
  
“Unbelievable,” He shakes his head, turning back from whence he came, “Ugh. I can’t handle deception from a robot right now- You know I know you’re not an actual robot, shut up. I’ll see you tomorrow. Uh, I mean- You know what I mean! Bye.”   
  
The worst injury he’s received so far tonight is a kitten scratch on his upper arm, gifted to him by a large knife and three (now incarcerated) car jackers. While it would be mildly annoying to have to stitch up the hole, it was the least damage the spandex had taken after his usual five hour patrol in a long time.   
  
Swinging home, he should have known to expect something disastrous and messy. The apartment building engulfed in flames fit that bill to a tee.   
  
Fire has to be Peter’s second least favorite thing to deal with as Spider-Man, right under getting possessed by a murderous alien symbiote. He doesn’t exactly have any powers that can aid in smothering a full blown fucking inferno, so nine times out of ten the only things he can do are get as many people out as possible, watch them lose their homes, and nurse second degree burns for the following week. He’s not looking forward to all of the guilt and off-brand alocane in his future.   
  
A scream sounds and Peter figures that’s his cue to stop staring woefully at the blazing building and move his ass.   
  
Cops, firetrucks, and news crews have all shown up, which says something about his reaction time. He’s gonna have to tweak those spidey senses to tingle before things get out of hand. And things have most certainly gotten out of hand.   
  
From what Peter can gather from overhearing snippets of frantic conversations, the building is old and not up to fire code in the slightest. So, no fire escape or anything like that, which has left nearly half of the people in the huge building stuck on the upper floors.   
  
Spider-Man has his work cut out for him.   
  
He webs his way over to the top floor, planning on working his way down as quickly as he can. Making it to the ground floor before the building collapses is preferable but unlikely, at this point.   
  
Very unlikely, he amends, at the gaggle of panicked people he spots from behind the window, crowding the hall. There’s at least thirty of them that he can see, and that’s not counting the people still trapped behind their apartment doors. If it's the same story on all fifteen floors, then there is absolutely no way he can save everyone before the fire gets to them.   
  
He swallows down the realization, breaking the window and crawling into the building. Once he’s inside, there’s a loud noise of relief coming from everyone that acts as a much needed, addictive shot of confidence. He can do it. He just has to push himself a little; Find his need for speed. He _will_ do it.   
  
A second later, he doesn’t have to. Seeing as the fire is being sucked from the building and all.   
  
“I am the light of god!” Bellows a very drunk Human Torch, hovering brightly in the center of the night sky.   
  
Peter grimaces. Johnny showing up completely sauced for a bit of heroics is barely better than civilians burning to death. That’s an exaggeration, of course. But he is not looking forward to wrangling the matchstick back home before the guy can say anything catastrophic to the reporters. Like, uh, Spider-Man’s secret identity, for example. Y’know, just off the top of his head.   
  
He jumps back out of the window, “Hey, flamebrain! Put yourself out before I get my webs on a hose! You’ve shown off enough for one night!”   
  
“Are you impressed or what?!” Johnny laughs, obediently extinguishing and falling through the air.   
  
“I’m the most impressed, now shut up!” Peter snaps, swinging by to grab the loser and take the both of them home. Crisis averted. Mostly.   
  
Johnny clings to him like a distressed damsel, “I’m in love.”   
  
“So you’ve said,” Peter rolls his eyes, “Can you just not talk until we get home? I just got showed up by a wasted horndog; my self esteem needs some time to figure itself out.”   
  
“Not with _you_ , Spidey-Babe,” Johnny flicks his mask covered nose, “Well, always with you. And always with Samira Wiley. But someone else! A french girl. She was at this college party and she’s _perfect_ . Gorgeous, doesn’t speak a lick of English-”   
  
“Do you speak French?” Peter doesn’t know why he’s bothering to try to connect the dots of a drunk man’s tale.   
  
“ _Oui oui, mon ami, je m’appelle Lafayette_ -!”   
  
“I regret taking you to see Hamilton more than anything in the world.”   
  
“Shhhh, listen to me,” He clears his throat, “She was perfect, and she thought I was perfect, too. So, we’re going to run away to France together in the morning and elope. It’s all very romantic.”   
  
Peter doubts that Johnny will remember the girl's name in the morning, never mind the plans, “Definitely.”   
  
“You know what this means for us don’t you?” Johnny slurs, extremely seriously.   
  
He lands on the balcony of their apartment and puts his roommate down, tearing off his mask to take in a breath of fresh air, “Enlighten me.”   
  
Johnny leans in very closely, the tips of their noses nearly touch, “… This is your last chance for us to screw before I’m a married man. And I’m no cheater, not even for you, so what's it gonna be?”   
  
Peter leans back, “Somehow, I will go on with my life without having drunk, gross sex with you. Good night.”   
  
Johnny presses his lips against Peter’s. Not for the first time- Not even for the first time that month. Peter pushes him back like he’s an untrained puppy and scowls at him. Those super shots the local bars had started serving last year were the bane of Peter’s life and the fuel of Johnny’s.   
  
“I’m saying no,” He asserts, holding the blond at arm’s length.   
  
“I get that. Totally get it. Respect it,” Johnny nods, hands up in surrender and hair flopping everywhere, because not even the most expensive gel can survive being on fire, “But, like, why not?”   
  
The question momentarily throws Peter. _Several reasons_. Johnny isn’t in his right mind, though being sober’s never stopped him from incessantly flirting. Peter hasn’t been with anyone since Gwen. He’s tired. He probably has soot in his lungs. _Etcetera_!   
  
None of these excuses voice themselves. Johnny fills the silence.   
  
“Because, and hear me out here, I have a purely scientific theory about you, Peter,” He says, trying noticeably hard to sound articulate, “Y’know how you’re like stressed _all the time_? ‘Course you do. Well, I don’t think it’s legit stress, man. I think it’s at least ninety percent sexual frustration.”   
  
“And this is a completely professional diagnosis, because you’re not at all horny.”   
  
“Not at all,” Johnny echoes, very convincingly, “And I think you should help me test my theory. ‘Cause you like science.”   
  
Peter blinks at him, “So you want us to bang in the name of science?”   
  
Johnny licks his lips, eyes big and earnest, “Yes.”   
  
Peter knows that Johnny doesn’t give a single flaming fuck about anything relating to science. It’s the most desperate proposition Peter’s gotten from him in a _while_ . However, Johnny’s fake hypothesis has Peter stupidly, desperately curious.   
  
Logically, there are a lot of factors in his life that would stress even the most resilient of people out, so it’s more likely that maybe about ten percent of his anxiety is stemmed from sexual frustration... However, a little experiment wouldn’t hurt anybody.   
  
“… You’ve got me,” He sounds as surprised as Johnny looks.

Maybe he had been fooling around. Joking. Declarations of love and friendly smooches could just be how the dumb blond shows platonic affection. Thinking about it seriously, in all the time that he’s known Johnny the guy has claimed to be in love with over twenty people, found six different soul mates, and- And Peter’s the one making it weird with spontaneous, life altering decisions to bone his close friend. Whom he is very financially dependent on- Oh god, what if Johnny’s a sex addict and Peter is unknowingly aiding his pal on his destructive journey down the long dark road of addiction-  
  
“Lit,” Johnny eventually grins, resuming the kissing, now with clear unchaste intent as the two of them stumble inside.   
  
And with the utterance of that one word Peter knows he is going to regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I want to format this fic (fuckmefornotplanningaheadgoingwiththeflowisoverratedgoddamn).


	3. Peter Parker's Perilous Craigslist Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Over one hundred kudos! Thanks <3

“He just _left_?” Tony repeats, sliding a large mug of steaming, strongly brewed black coffee Peter’s way. It’s five pm, but Tony has just woken up from a power nap and Peter is never not in constant need of caffeine.

“Yup!” Peter crosses his arms from where he’s seated on the counter in the tower’s communal kitchen, “I wake up and all of his crap is out of the apartment. He didn’t even leave a note.” Or next month’s rent. But who can focus on that? Not him, not with the glorious view he’s been blessed with this afternoon.

He’s currently failing at avoiding drooling over a bed rumpled Tony Stark; his hair an illegally disheveled mess and movements damn near _adorably_ clumsy. It’s unfair. No one looks this good after rolling out of bed. Especially not while wearing the most worn out t-shirt Peter’s ever seen. There are _holes_ in the garment for fuck’s sake and Tony still looks better than Johnny does after a visit to his stylist. Oh, and there’s the skin those holes are showing off- Don’t stretch right now. Fuck. The _flexing-_

Oh no. Peter’s face heats as he pleads with his brain and body to not give him a boner right now. All evidence leads to the conclusion that thinking with his dick is a thing that needs to _stop happening_. He peels his eyes away with great difficulty and stares instead into the depths of the cup of expensive Tanzanian brew he takes into his hands.

Tony takes a greedy gulp from his own mug, adam’s apple bobbing obscenely in Peter’s peripheral vision as he swallows, “What an ass. Guy’s been trying to get into your pants since you met him; I figured he’d stick around at least until you gave up the goods.”

Peter’s poker face is weak in the extreme, “Well-”

“Okay,” Tony interrupts, with a poorly hidden laugh that makes Peter want to phase through the floor. Or kiss him. Both. Both is good. “When did that happen?”

“... Last night,” He sullenly confesses, drowning his sorrows with a mouthful of sinfully piquant coffee, “He was drunk and I was just getting so tired of making up excuses and telling him no and-”

Tony lowers his drink, tone taking on a steely quality, “Did he force you?”

Goosebumps break out over Peter’s exposed arms. _Hellooooo,_ superhero voice. Let’s save that for the bedroom, shall we? Or the workshop later. Hell, the kitchen’s empty right now, if you’re feeling as desperate as him-

Tony sets the glass mug down on the counter with a loud thump and Peter realizes that his silence is probably a little worrisome given the context.

“No!” He rushes out, pausing to take another sip of his drink in order to quench his thirst and his _thirst_ , “Of course not. No. If I can lift a bus over my head, I can avoid getting _forced_ by just about anybody now. It wasn’t even full blown sex, really- We just fooled around and, and-”

“Had subpar orgasms.”

A light hit of nostalgia makes Peter’s mouth twitch, taking precedence over the fact that Tony just said orgasm a meager foot away from him.

“What kind of conversation am I walking in on?”

Their heads turn to see Colonel Rhodes and a petite girl wearing a loose Postmates t-shirt enter the kitchen, what looks like dozens of grocery bags being hauled in by the both of them.

“Rhodey!” Tony’s face lights up; eyes widening, teeth flashing, and grogginess seeming to leave him entirely, “I thought you weren’t coming back until next week.”

The man’s gaze flickers over to an unjustifiably jealous Peter before he gives the condensed version of the story, “Change of plans.”

The Postmate drops off the plethora of goods on the ground, walking over to Tony and holding a tablet out to him, “Your signature?”

He eyes the tablet, “Um-”

Three pairs of eyes roll simultaneously, with varying degrees of fondness. The girl, not a drop of affection for the genius in her body, sets the tablet on the counter next to him with a bothered sigh.

“Shouldn’t you two be blowing things up downstairs?” Rhodes asks, beginning to unpack the groceries. Peter would help if he wasn’t sure that the second he touched anything resembling food, manners would be little more than a distant memory and the sustenance would be scarfed down his throat.

“Not today,” Tony answers, scribbling on the tablet with the stylus before he hands the device back to the girl, who leaves while still looking mildly annoyed, “Peter is having love troubles.”

“No, I’m not,” Peter immediately defends, looking away from the box of chocolate glazed donuts being taken out of a bag, “Johnny is probably my best friend-”

“And therein lies the problem, sweet pea.” Peter falls off the counter at the nickname, nevermind how sarcastically it’s delivered. “Back me up, Rhodey. You don’t ‘fool around’ with your best friend unless you want to pursue something more.”

Rhodes hesitates, “How old are you, Peter?”

Peter shrugs, “Old enough.”

“Old enough for what?”

“... To party.”

His reference goes unappreciated. “You look ten.”

“I’m twenty,” Peter unhappily clarifies, and stupidly continues after a quick peek in Tony’s direction, “Totally legal.”

The wave of self hatred that hits him after that little slip up is a _powerful_ one.

“And _totally_ about to be evicted,” Tony carries on, idly stirring his beverage and mercifully ignoring him, “Because the best friend slash roommate left the country the morning after the long awaited hook up. Any words of wisdom? Before you say anything, the dramatic airport rom-com scene isn’t a possibility- The guy is long gone.”

Rhodey makes a face, “I can promise you that wasn’t the first thing that came to mind.”

“What was?” Peter asks, misery seeping into his bones at the reminder of his impending homelessness.

The Colonel shrugs, putting two cartons of milk in the fridge, “This is Johnny Storm we’re talking about, right? He’s a flake; Not really the best choice for a close friend. I say forget about him.”

Tony shakes his head before giving him a _look_ , “As both a flake and your closest friend, I’m offended. I was thinking more along the lines of Craigslist.”

“Craigslist?” Peter echoes, eyebrows raising with attitude aplenty.

“Craigslist,” Tony confirms. Maybe Craigslist will be their always. “To solve the homeless problem. Not the boy troubles. For that, I recommend rebound sex and burning anything he ever gave you.”

“Stop giving bad advice to children,” Rhodes abandons the rest of the bagged groceries for the moment, swiping a donut from the box and increasing Peter’s envy sevenfold with a single bite of the delectable smelling pastry, “Look at him. He weighs seventy pounds and has a baby face. Any roommate he finds on the internet is going to murder, rape, and/or sell him to human traffickers.”

The sweet, sweet feeling of being underestimated. Peter could not. Get. Enough.

“You’re so jaded,” Tony holds an expectant hand out in the Avenger’s direction. What? Not specific enough? Well, there’s only two Avengers in the room, don’t you know! Peter’s too _weak_ and _helpless_ and- “Peter can handle himself.”

In love.

Rhodes hands Tony a donut, expression mildly pained, “Tony. He’s-”

“Legal.” Shut up, Peter. Shut up. Shut up.

“-got friends or family he can stay with. Don’t you?” Peter’s pulse kicks into high gear at the question.

Sure! Aunt May! Oh, and MJ is around New York somewhere, too! He should go spend even _more_ time with them and get them killed at his earliest convenience! With the body count Peter’s wracked up already, what’s a few more dead people? They can join Uncle Ben, Captain Stacey, Gwen-

“And if he doesn’t,” Tony, knowing exactly what’s going through Peter’s head, grabs his shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze, “Craigslist.”

The internet is a terrifying place. If you’re a _pussy_.

Looking at the roommate wanted ad that read, ‘TWINK ROOMMEAT WANTED RENT PAYED IN ASS’, Peter begins to wonder if he might in fact be a pussy.

He scrolls using the touchpad on his school appointed laptop, desperately scanning the page for something relatively sane and in his price range. Considering how pathetic his price range is, it shouldn’t surprise Peter that everything available to him is sketchy as hell. He didn’t think it was possible to jam so much sketch into one little website.

He groans, growing more disgusted and frustrated the longer he searches. He’s only set aside ten minutes tonight to make a list of possible listings to check out in person tomorrow. It’s his first day off of work, school, and the internship all at once in a solid year and he’s going to spend it meeting creeps from Craigslist. Mega creeps, from the looks of things.

What feels like an entire hour later, Peter has seen all of the postings that meet his financial criteria and hasn’t written down a single address. With a huff, he clicks back to the beginning and starts going through his options again, only with much lower standards as far as human decency went.

Three barely acceptable discovered places later, Peter is afraid to look at the time. He shuts his laptop and places it on the nightstand, daring to spare a glance at the digital clock that usually resides next to his lamp. Only to find charred, mechanical rubble. Right.

Johnny was supposed to buy him a new one. The vapid, flighty dick.

With a feral suck of his teeth, he rolls off of his bed and scans the room for his discarded pants. With the room half empty, they’re not at all hard to find. He bitterly snatches them up and fishes out his phone from his back pocket. It’s already _four fucking fifty_ in the morning _._ He could cry. Or maybe just grab an hour of sleep and be a little late to cla… It’s his day off.

Peter allows a single tear of relief to escape him before he sets the alarm on his phone for noon and flings himself onto his bed. He’s out before he hits the mattress.

It’s still early in the afternoon when he knocks on the door of the last person on his list, careful not to be too hopeful. There was only so much disappointment he could take and his dreams had already been thoroughly crushed twice today.

Potential roommate number one, Cameron, had seemed nice enough. She had greeted him with a large smile on her shockingly attractive young face, she had politely shaken his hand, and offered finger sandwiches. The apartment was clean, he got his own room _and_ bathroom. The decor was a bit feminine, but he could live with that no problem. Everything had been going great! Until she'd started talking beyond pleasantries.

“There’s no actual cash you’ll have to hand over to stay here, but for this to work out, you’ll have to be okay with the cameras. They’re on a live feed all over the apartment. They’re broadcasted twenty-four/seven on a website where our supporters give us all the financial support we need,” Her phone dings, “Oh my goodness! We’ll get a four hundred dollar donation if you smile! Point that cute face at the vase on the coffee table and give him a big one! I have such a good feeling about working with you, Pete! I usually have to at least lose the bra for four hundo-”

Nope. For secret identity reasons, and the fear that someone he knew as Peter Parker would discover his new occupation as a camboy. A lot of nope.

Potential roommate number two was worse. The man was drunk off of his ass and _raging_ when Peter had shown up. He hadn’t dared to even enter the apartment reeking of alcoholism and fury after the guy had opened his door and said hello with a friendly, New Yorkian chucking of a glass bottle at your guest’s head.

So, Peter is tentatively optimistic about lucky number three and delusionally convincing himself that things will be different since this is a duplex and not an apartment.

The door swings open, revealing a tight-lipped, elderly lady with shades and hoop earrings bigger than his future. Okay. Good. Peter is great with old people. His Aunt’s church group _loves_ him.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Hi-”

“What the fuck do you want?” She grabs her hip with one wrinkly hand in a move that is either bothered or osteoarthritic, Peter can’t tell which.

“I- I’m here about the roommate opening?” Jesus, you’re not applying for a job, Peter, get your head in the game. Whip out the youthful puppy dog eyes and dimples, she’ll go _nuts…_ It occurs to Peter that the dark spectacles might not be simply an accessory. His chances of charming her into letting him live there decrease by ninety percent.

Her brows slowly rise up from behind her tinted glasses like the morning sun ascends from the horizon, “Shit, I wish. Fucker just got back and won’t leave.”

Peter frowns, “Do… Do you need help getting them out?”

She cocks her head a fraction, “He’s more than you can handle. You sound like a fifteen year old boy scout.”

“I’m twenty,” He’s little more than a broken record at this point, “And I know a guy who can give you a hand-”

“The rent’s double what it says in that ad you found,” She interrupts, “The landlord’s a cunt. Can you even afford it?”

Absolutely not. Well, if he goes back to stripping… “Maybe?”

He doesn’t _want_ to, but the money is inarguably phenomenal, at least it had been when he was eighteen. And this lady is too great (semi-sane being great in the context of Craigslist users) to walk away from! A blind, sourpuss granny with the mouth of a sailor! What a character!

He wouldn’t have to worry about hiding any of his Spidey gear. He could bring Aunt May over, get his hands on some braille playing cards, and let the old bats play endless games of bridge together. Maybe they’d fall in love! It would be-

“Al, you’re letting all the stank out!” Squeaky footsteps follow the exclamation, “I’m sorry, but the position of annoying, shitty roommate has already been taken. So, fuck o-!” The man cuts off with a shriek, jumping out of sight before Peter can process more than _crocs_.

“Do you know him?” The woman, Al, asks the cowering croc wearer.

“ _Shut up_!” The guy whisper screams at her, “I need to think.”

So does Peter. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t know this dude, and strangers don’t usually flinch away from him in fear. _Especially_ when he’s out of the mask. Maybe he forget to brush his teeth this morning? Or, maybe the science pun on his shirt was just so damn good it was scary. Arachnophobia is very real, maybe the dude can sense the eight legs Peter’s got stuffed down his pant legs. No, no, joking aside, he only has three legs. _Ladies._

He mutes his internal, senseless thoughts, deciding that getting answers is better than cringing at himself, “Hey-”

“Here!” A scrap of paper is thrown suddenly into Peter’s face, gobsmacking him, “Bye!”

The door is slammed. Peter’s mouth twists and eyes widen incredulously at the shut door. What the _hell_?

Pondering on whether or not a stronger mouthwash would be a necessary investment, he unfolds the crumpled paper and stares at it for a good minute.

An address. An address that will be where Peter’s body is found if he’s stupid enough to show up there.

Dumb with desperation, Peter is now standing outside of a (likely abandoned) old catholic boarding house in a back alley. He double checks the jumble of letters and numbers scrawled on the note in his hand to make sure he’s in the proper place to be shanked. Yeah, this is it.

Maybe this is Captain Crocs way of telling him to find god. Or his way of telling Peter to mind his own damn business and get away from his home.

Whatever the case, screw that guy. Spider-Man would fuck his shit all up later... After finding a cause more just than petty revenge, of course. Because being a moderately ethical vigilante is the _most_ fun.

Sighing heavily through his nose, he balls up the paper and tosses it into a nearby trash can, hard enough to knock the thing over. He’s wasted over half of his day off with no positive results. The only saving grace of today would be the empowering fury nap he would definitely be taking once he got back to his temporary home.

The second Peter turns his back, the door to the building opens with a creak that is downright spooky.

The probability of a demonic nun being behind him is low, yes, but he’d rather just walk away than chance the run in with nightmare fuel. Leaving this one for the Winchesters and going on his merry, hobo way is his best option.

“Peter.”

Peter jumps fifty feet into the air. Well, not literally. He’s in civvies, after all. He has to maintain a certain amount of chill at all times to keep his double life a secret. Like Hannah Montanah.

Restarting his heart, he processes the voice as not all that horrifying and dares to peek over his shoulder, “Yes?”

Unless demons were starting to disguise themselves as geeky adult stoners, Peter was safe from anything supernatural for the time being.

The guy, looking harassed, swings the creaky door open wide, “Get in.”

Bad idea. “Okay?” He’s an idiot.

An idiot that is entering the boarding house with his own two, stupid feet. He is now standing in a… bar? A bar. What the hell, Crocs? He makes tense eye contact with a roided up chick sitting in the corner, before stoner dude grabs his shoulder and tugs him along.

There’s not been a single tingle of spidey sense that’s hit him so far, so he tries to keep an open mind when he’s brought to an excessively locked door next that (after jamming four different keys into four different locks) opens to reveal a flight of stairs. If there isn’t a dead body at the top of these stairs, Peter will count this little adventure as a win.

It’s a win! As well as a cluttered apartment. The amount of empty bottles of alcohol and the number of guns compete for Peter’s attention, both of the surpluses urging him to throw up a red flag and hightail it out of there. His curiosity has other plans.

“What is this?” Peter makes a broad gesture to the entire area, “Why did you bring me here? Do I know you? Do you know me? You knew my name. Why is that?” He pauses, thinking about anything else that needed to be asked or said before the shenanigans continue. “You have a lot of guns.” There.

“Yeah,” The guy shifts his weight from foot to foot, “… Look, this is really fucking last minute and I have some very easily irritable customers to take care of right now. Do you want the room or not?”

Room-? Cheese and fricking crackers. That fashionably challenged gentleman was actually being helpful. The poor dear judged so quickly for wearing something so heinous, only to have a heart of gold hidden beyond those disgusting rubber soles. Peter could write a goddamn poem about that tacky saint.

“I don’t have a lot of money,” He warns, instead of planning out the rough draft of his limerick.

The man snorts, “That part’s covered, don’t worry.”

Peter makes a face at the news, “How?”

He rolls his eyes, looking antsier by the second, “Let’s save the Q and A for tomorrow. Here’s the gist; You’re room is down the hall, first door on the left. It’s full of shit, just throw it all into the living room. The only exit is through the bar or the windows, so if you see me again before tomorrow, do not talk to me. In fact, don’t talk to anyone in the bar. Ground rule number one… Bye.” He heads for the stairs.

“Wait, uh,” Peter swallows, brain going a million miles a millisecond trying to figure out what’s happening, “That’s it? I- I just live here now?”

“Get ready for the slumber parties, kid, my french braid game is fucking robust,” He deadpans, “Bye.”

“Wait!” Peter says again, before the guy can begin his descent, “What’s-” Going on? The catch? “-your name?” Good enough.

“Weasel,” He huffs, going down, “Bye.”

Peter grimaces and calls after him, “That sounds suspiciously made up!”

The door to the bar slams in response.

The weirdness of the situation catches up with Peter the second he’s alone. He looks around the strange place with eyes that feel too large for his skull. He pulls at his hair as he shuffles through the mess of the floor, skin too tight and mouth too dry. Chest heavy, lungs constricting, and stomach tying itself in the type of complicated knot a professional gift wrapper would see as impressive, he stares down the aforementioned, foreign hallway.

Noise from downstairs filters in through the floorboards, reminding Peter that this is not the best time or place for a break down. A rescheduling would be an order. Or a cancellation. Definitely the latter, because, hell, he should be _celebrating_! Homeless crisis averted and all that!

Still, the slightly unwarranted panic remains, logic forgotten. He attempts to smother it with a therapeutic exhale of, “What the hell.”

It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Peter moves on, diligently ignoring the obtrusive feeling with the kind of faux ease that comes with years of practice

After dinner, Aunt May is managing to pull off a surprisingly effective guilt inspiring glare, even with the mouthful of storebought cinnamon apple pie making her cheeks protrude. She meticulously chews, the deadly aspect of the look increasing in severity with each snap of her jaw.

Dread hunches Peter’s shoulders forward and down, killing his appetite. Nearly. He takes a small bite of his own slice of pie and chances a glance at his aunt when the tasty pastry lands on his tongue.

She’s swallowed, her mouth is now open and ready to lecture. Peter braces himself for the inevitable full name drop.

“Peter Benjamin Parker!” There it is, “I- You should have called me the very second he left you- You’re no good with break ups! You could barely handle Mary Jane ending it after three days of ‘dating’ in the third grade- You wouldn’t go to school for a _week_ , remember? And that time in high school! Another week missed. And… Gwen, the darling. You wouldn’t leave the house for months after her, honey. Now the boy that you’ve placed your trust in, moved in with, and started building a life with disappears overnight after _years_ together! I’m going to kill him. How are you not curled up in bed watching that god awful Adam Sandler movie on repeat-?”

“Fifty First Dates got me through some rough-”

“Do not interrupt me right now!” Despite the words, she stops talking and stuffs more pie into her mouth, chomping angrily.

Peter stabs his slice with his fork, “I think you might be overestimating how serious Johnny and I were. We were _friends_. Close friends, at the most. I’m not all that upset about my ‘pal’ leaving as I am mad that my roommate who pays all of the bills vanished without any notice.”

Aunt May frowns, concern becoming the prominent emotion visible on her face, “Oh no… You’re always welcome back home if need be, Peter, you know that.”

It’s a good thing he’d found a roommate less than an hour before coming over. With the horrible dinner, the comforting, familiar smell of burnt food and lilac air freshener, and May’s warm eyes, Peter wouldn’t have been able to do anything other than selfishly accept the offer. And that would ultimately have disastrous consequences.

“Thanks,” He takes another quick bite of the warm apple filling and flakey crust, “I already found a place and a roommate.”

She smiles, “Well, good.” Her smile dims considerably, “It’s not Stark, is it?”

 _Boy_ , don’t he wish. He sighs, “No, Aunt May.”

“It’s fine if it’s him. Very… _good_ of him, or whatever. But I just want you to know,” She places a hand on top of Peter’s on the table, and he knows instantly where the conversation is going, “I hate him.”

Yup, “I know, Aunt May.”

“I understand that he’s smart, and a hero, and charitable with others, and blah,” She sticks her tongue out in a manner that is extremely befitting of someone her age, “But I am entitled to my opinion, and my opinion is that he sucks.”

“I know, Aunt May.”

She looks like she’s going to continue, but seems to think better of it as she asks, “So who is it, then?”

Peter pops the remainder of his pie into his mouth and chews it slowly as he carefully prepares his answer, “You don’t know him. He’s just some guy that I work with. W- Uh… Westley.” Perfect. Totally normal, no cause for alarm. To blave.

“Oh. How much is he charging you?” She sips her ice water.

“Not much,” He says, but Aunt May doesn’t like cryptic answers, so he’s quick to change the subject before more questions can be thrown his way, “Are the bills still being taken care of over here? No problems, or anything?”

She drops her fork on her plate, sighing through her nose, “You know I don’t like talking about that, Peter.” Peter waits, knowing that if the silence draws out for long enough, May will continue. She huffs, predictably, “But, yes. The church is still being very generous and Ben’s life insurance money won’t be running out anytime soon. I’m all set, thank you for your concern.”

Peter shrugs, “It’s just weird that the company didn’t give you anything until almost two years… after. That nursing job was the worst.”

May stands, gathering dirty dishes with rushed, jerky movements, “Yes, well, it took some time to process the insurance and- and- Peter. Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not feeling very well. Thank you so much for visiting. Come over again? Soon?”

He gapes a little at the sudden dismissal, before closing his mouth and getting up, “Sure. Yeah. Um… I… hope you feel better.”

“Thank you, dear,” She smiles thinly, disappearing into the kitchen with the dishes without even so much as a hug or an offering of leftovers, “Bye, now.”

Peter slips his jacket and shoes on, looking back as he opens the front door, “... Bye. Love you.”

There’s a distant hum in response that Peter takes absolutely the most offense to. He doesn’t slam the door behind him, because he’s not seventeen, but the childish urge is definitely present. His chest tightens painfully with the strength of the angst. And the fact that his eyes begin to sting before he can fully close the door with a quiet click is a testament to his anger and definitely not any other, messier feelings. He doesn’t have the time to deal with anything like that.


	4. Enter Love Interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally figured out the formating of this fic, so there shouldn't be as much confusion about the time skips. Also, loooooooooong time no update. I had the time. There's no excuse. I'm just really fucking lazy. Sorry. I'm going to try to be better about updating AT LEAST once a month. Which really isn't that much lmao, but it's better than almost three months of literally n o t h i n g. We'll see what happens. Enjoy <3

Peter freezes, “You’re joking.”

What poor taste his Numerical Analysis professor has. Toying with delicate young college students’ emotions like this- Peter _will_ be filing an official harassment complaint later, make no mistake. Right after he gives the middle aged woman a chance to deliver a punchline that won’t reduce him to a sobbing mess while still on campus. His eyes are already watering, so he hopes (for her sake, of course) that she’s a secret goddess of hilarity.

She blinks soberly at him. Man, she really needs to work on her comedic timing. The suspense is getting less and less fun- According to his oncoming heart attack, at least.

He blinks back at her, wetly. However, tears are not yet spilling, so she’s got precious seconds to turn this bit around and steal Louis C.K.’s crown. He gives her a merciful imploring look. Crickets start performing sad, metaphorical chirps. She’s completely lost the audience’s faith- It’s the worst routine the club has seen in decades; Meryll Matthews will go down in history as the most painfully unfunny lady in all of North America. Maybe they’ll make her a plaque-

She gives her head a small, nauseating shake, “I’m afraid not, Parker.”

“Oh.” Shit.

His head swims for a moment, dread threatening to drown him. Before he can become entirely consumed by sorrow, he scrapes at his brain’s depleted well of creativity for an excuse that he hasn’t given this particular teacher yet.

“I-” Dammit. Dammit, dammit- Why is lying so _hard_ \- Oh! Truth! Just tell the truth- He has a legitimate reason! This time. “Sorry. I just finished moving, and it’s been hard to balance school work with-” _Everything_. “-the confusion. It’s been hectic-”

There’s not an ounce of sympathy in Professor Matthews unimpressed stare. Honesty is getting him nowhere; He needs to switch tactics.

He chances a sniffle paired with a daring, hollywood tear. Her demeanor changes drastically at the deceitful display. He feels like dirt, but that’s nothing new. And he has to survive college somehow, even if it means stooping to manipulating people to keep his head above water. He braces himself for the inevitability of the universe dunking him later before he opens his mouth.

“I’m just really overwhelmed,” Peter’s voice cracks and he has to wonder if the lie is hitting too close to home to be called such a thing, “I’m really trying to stay on top of everything, but there’s just _so much_ -” Relief slaps some perspective into him as Professor Matthews cuts him off. Definitely too close to home.

“Par- _Peter_. Peter, please just take a breath.”

“I am breathing,” He wheezes.

“Not very well,” She notes, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Try to calm down.”

Meryll must be a mother. A good mother. Her children are already out of the house, done with college, and figuring out their lives. And the magnificent Meryll has formed a solid enough foundation in their personalities that they’ll be fine. They’ll thrive out in the world; all in different ways, but all with Meryll as their backbone to support them. God, what a beautiful, functional family.

What the fuck is he talking about-  

“Peter!”

He coughs, chokes embarrassingly, and eventually sucks in that recommended breath. Suffocating under his own bullshit would make the pathologist at his autopsy’s day a lot more interesting, but it is not his goal this morning.

“Sorry,” He croaks, and clears his throat, “I’m sorry. I am. But I _can_ ’ _t_ let my grade in here drop. If I don’t maintain at least a three point five GPA, I lose my scholarship.”

“I know,” She placates, rubbing at his shoulder soothingly, “It’s alright, Parker. I understand that you’ve had a lot on your plate. The fact that you made the effort to finish the assignment at all speaks for itself about your work ethic. And because the essay you turned in to me was actually good in quality, I will allow you to make up the grade.”

The weight crushing his lungs leaps off of his chest with an enthusiastic pirouette, “ _Thank you-_ ”

“Get all thirty pages done this week and hand it in first thing Friday morning. That’s the most time I can give you.”

It’s not ideal. Hell, it might not even be possible. But it was his dumb ass that wrote the essay on the wrong chapter in the first place, so he should just be grateful that Professor Matthews has a heart. Professor Glass would _never_.

“I really appreciate it,” Peter is able to say this without feeling like a glob of slime, because he realizes that not a single word that has left his mouth in this conversation has been false. His pride takes a hit, but his conscience gives itself a well deserved pat on the back.

“Work on your time management,” She advises and dismisses him by removing her touch and sitting back down behind her desk.

He nods and turns to leave the building, flippantly considering her words. He didn’t have any time to manage.

That evening, he has even less time to manage than usual thanks to the toll Jameson’s rampage takes on Peter’s poor cubicle. Papers and polaroids are strewn about the small space chaotically, even more so than usual. His boss’ angry, caffeine fueled reorganization of all of his employee’s stations is still going on, but the tantrum has thankfully moved down a floor.

Meaning that Peter doesn’t have to waste _another_ hour overtime dodging potential paper cuts and/or burns from furiously hurled coffees. Tony’s already going to be less than pleased about his tardiness. Hypocritically, Peter has to note, given that the man only bothers to attend half of their planned meetings. Still, fighting fire with fire is not the solution or whatever.

Giving his wrecked cubicle an exhausted once over, he shakes his head and decides that this mess is one best dealt with tomorrow.

He’s missed his bus by a _longshot_ , and the next one doesn’t come around for another twenty minutes. He’s impatient, so he’s stuck shoving himself past dense crowds of other people who are looking forward to going _home_ after a long day of work until he’s on the subway in a crammed train car. At least this time he gets a seat.

His phone vibrates against his thigh before he can properly take relish in his temporary and slightly sticky throne. He doesn’t need to check the caller ID to know who it is.

“Hi, it’s me. Your hero, whom you're missing valuable face time with. Um,” An electrical zap sounds from Tony’s end of the line, “Is there a _good_ reason for that, or should I be expecting you to feed me a generic excuse in three, two, one…”

“I had to work overtime,” Peter explains, miserably and generically, “Sorry. But, I’m on my way now-”

“Don’t bother,” He says, and Peter’s heart sinks, “You work too hard. And that’s _me_ saying that. A man who could be profiting immensely on your self destructive industriousness. Go to a bar, or something. Well. You’re twenty- Send Spider-Man to a bar! Be a reckless college student. In fact, take the rest of the week off and have some fun. You’ve earned it, kid.”

Peter is not an idiot, contrary to popular belief, “And this impromptu break is just a reward for me and has nothing to do with your scheduled flight to Montreal tonight?”

There’s a beat of silence, “So, you saw the note Pepper left on the fridge.”

“I did,” He confirms, mouth curving slightly upwards.

“... God, she’s just the best. You, her, Happy, and Rhodey. My rocks. My pillars of support. What would I do without you-”

His heart accepts the life raft Tony throws it with a flutter, despite the forced overabundance of flattery, “Have a good trip, Mr. Stark.”

“You’re a peach,” He cooes, “Thanks.”

Tony hangs up and Peter allows the warmth in his cheeks to linger pleasantly as he slips his phone back into his pocket and the subway begins to slow. On the bright side, he might be able to get that essay done now-

Alarm bells _shriek_ in his ears, jolting his body up and into a tense, defensive position as his eyes frantically search for the source provoking his spidey sense. It’s embarrassingly hard to miss the excessively muscular, unoriginally super suited man strapped excessively with weapons standing not even a yard away from him. The gun he’s casually raising sticks out as well.

Okay, _think_. He’s not exactly dressed for the occasion, and there’s no way he can make a lightning fast costume change without getting noticed in the tightly packed train car. Or, more crucially, before someone dies.

The pistol is cocked, the unmistakeable sound silencing the idle chat of the other passengers. There’s no time for a plan.

Peter lunges at the potential murderer, grabbing his arm and forcing the man to aim upwards (perhaps a bit too easily to pass for average strength at his size) as the trigger is pulled. The shot echoes alongside the screams of bystanders after the bullet goes through the roof of the train.

The masked maniac’s irritation is portrayed with a snarl as his head whips downwards to glare at Peter. The noise cuts off the moment eye contact is made. Well, Peter’s assuming there’s some kind of eye contact happening. The white eyes of the mask go from angrily scrunched to relaxed. And then _wide_. Peter mirrors the reaction, adrenaline rush not quite canceling out the keen awareness of _everyone’s_ eyes on his bare face. It’s unnerving enough for him to forget to come up with a phase two of Plan Spontaneity.

The train comes to a full stop, the doors opening. Citizens dash out of the confined space and onto the station, half of them on their phones valiantly attempting to contact the police. Peter hopes for the sake of his secret identity that the cops have a useful reaction time for once. Five more seconds pass by and he is predictably disappointed.

“Fuck,” The guy suddenly blurts, tearing his arm out of Peter’s grasp and following everyone else’s example by blasting like Sonic.

“Fuck,” Peter sympathizes to the empty air with a sigh, taking in a stabilizing breath before darting through the doorway and heading heroically to the public restrooms. What he does is very glamorous, you see.

He dramatically kicks open the first available stall he comes across and locks it with a blurry flourish of his hand. Knowing he’ll regret it later, he speedily rips off his flannel, scattering buttons in every which way. His jeans are handled with only slightly more care as he tugs them off of his spandex clad legs. This event’s one saving grace is that today is one of the days he’d randomly decided to wear a suit under his civvies. He slips on his gloves, situates his web shooters, and shoves his mask onto his head with jerky, rushed movements.And with a less than half-assed attempt to hide his belongings behind the toilet, he’s leaving the bathroom and sprinting passed shook New Yorkers.

The criminal-slash-probable-aspiring super-villain was smart enough to not hang around the station, unfortunately. The manhunt alone could potentially eat up Peter’s entire goddamn night. Then again, it’s hard to imagine a guy in a bright red suit with bulky katanas on his back as a master of stealth.

He’s not wrong. Spider-Man stops running three minutes later, coming up behind the culprit. Who is nonchalantly waiting in line at a food truck with only two other customers present.

“Is now really the time for a chili dog?” Peter disbelievingly inquires, placing his hands on his hips.

“Time is a social construct,” The guy begins to answer, before turning around and realizing who it is he’s talking to, “... Well, fuck me sideways, Make-A-Wish finally came through. I think. You’re not just a crazy good cosplayer are you? I’m pissed, if that’s the case. But also very curious about padding and how of it much was needed to get the illusion of the authentic perfection of Spidey’s iconic bubble butt-”

He shoots a web at the man’s mouth. It is dodged with worrisome ease.

A squeal ruptures Peter’s eardrums, “Would you look at that! You’re the real deal! I’ve got a bonafide, eight-legged, spider-twink asking me out for chili dogs!”

“I-”

“Semantics,” The guy dismisses Peter’s protest before he can even get it out, “Don’t move, I’ve got like four things on me that desperately need to be lovingly autographed-”

This is getting out of hand. And annoying. “I’m not here to sign anything!”

He theatrically gasps, taking a step back, “Well, I never! I don’t know what it is you’ve heard, Mr. Man, but I am an old fashioned gal. It’s our first date, for Pete’s sake; You better not be expecting anything more than a dirty, back alley handjob.”

 _Jeeze_. “Are you-”

“Playing hard to get? Yes. But I’m one hundred percent faking it, and there’s a pretty swanky hotel a couple of blocks away if you’re up for a romantic stroll followed by a less romantic, pillow biting-”

Spider-Man delivers a hard kick to the guys ribs, sending him crashing into a brick building with a sickening thump.  Oh. Maybe that was a bit much.

He approaches the criminal with guilty hesitance, and then purpose as the man stands up and stretches.

“Who are you?” Peter asks, before the dude can go off on another inappropriate tangent.

“That hurts, Spidey,” He grunts, cracking his neck, “Even more than you breaking my ribs. Here I am, ready to form two thirds of team red, and you don’t even know my _name_? And to think I was going to ask you to move in with me. What am I to you?”

“The guy who tried to kill a person on the subway five minutes ago.”

“... You’re not completely wrong,” He allows, “Corrections: One, she wasn’t a person, she was a serial child abuser. Two, I go by Deadpool.”

“Edgy,” Peter drones, before he fully comprehends the statement, “Was? What do you mean _was_?”

Deadpool laughs, “What? Did you really think the babe with no self preservation was going to stop me from doing my job? I have to maintain my five stars on Yelp, cuties with booties or no. I am a professional, after all.”

Peter pales, “You _killed_ her?”

“Professionally,” He reaffirms, “Right after she left the station. No harm done, aside from a traumatized cab driver and a stained back seat. He’ll be fine; I left him some cash to get it cleaned up. It was the friendly, neighborly thing to do.”

Without further preamble, Spider-Man webs him to the wall. A bit excessively considering how expensive the material is, but he doesn’t want to chance the murderer getting away. It’s bad enough that Peter prioritizing keeping his identity a secret has resulted in someone _dying_ ; Not doing all that he can to see to it that the killer ends up behind bars would only double his self loathing at this point.

“A bondage joke is low hanging fruit, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” He snaps, pulling out his one of many dirt cheap, burner phones to notify the police of the situation.

“Oh, yes, _sir,_ ” Deadpool squirms against the brick, “Safeword?”

“Premeditated homicide,” Peter grumbles into the receiver, before placing the phone down next to the murderer where it could be effectively traced.

“Eh, kinda wordy.”

He’d rather stick around to make sure that the police are able to detain _Deadpool_ without any trouble; However, he has a thirty page essay to do, along with the usual homework load from his other classes. After that, he has to patrol. Hanging out really can’t be considered a smart move, _especially_ with his relationship with the N.Y.P.D. being frosty at best.

Throwing the bound man a final disgusted look, he webs back over to the subway station and tries not to think about some woman, innocent or otherwise, being executed in the back of a taxi on his watch. He’s less than successful, of course. Guilt renders every movement he makes lethargic as he changes back into his regular clothes and heads home.

It’s barely eight, and yet the bar is in full swing when Peter arrives. This is both a blessing and a curse. A curse, because it’s hard enough to focus as drained as he constantly is, but pair that with illicit chaos happening _loudly_ just beneath his feet and his productivity plummets. And a blessing, because he can slip up to his room without being on the receiving end of some threateningly aimed, intense  stares. At least with the bar like this, (glasses being smashed against tables, drunks passed out on the floor, and people trying to maim each other) he doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of people meticulously plotting his death only feet away from him.

He uses his copies of the four keys needed to get to the apartment with minimal fumbling. After climbing up the steep flight of stairs, a demanding yawn badgers him into his bed, where he tells himself that he will be getting the _most_ work done after a ten minute nap. His phone vibrates its disagreement.

With an extremely necessary whine, he angrily grabs the buzzing device and scowls at the screen. His scowl shifts as his eyes bulge.

He answers the call before thinking it through, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Johnny responds, casually, “So, tell me smart guy, is it legal to get a divorce after three days of marriage?”

“Trouble in paradise?” Peter snarks, surprise evaporating as bitterness catches up with him, “Have you tried working on your communication- Oh. Wait.”

“A little language barrier isn’t enough to stop true love, Peter.”

“But something else was. What did she do? Insult the design of your action figure?”

Johnny groans childishly, “No. Even worse.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am!” He exclaims, and Peter can vividly picture the blond flopping bonelessly onto his bed with an exaggerated huff, “And I mean that in every single way the sentence can be interpreted. She’s never heard of the Human Torch! She lives in France, not under a _rock_! How the hell-”

Peter’s short supply of patience with him has run out, “Did you just call me to complain about your girlfrie- your _wife_?”

Johnny hesitates, “I mean. Yeah. I always talk to you about this kind of stuff. You’re my BFFL.”

“B.F.F.L. is an acronym, not one word,” He says, tersely, “There’s nothing else you want to say to me?”

“... This is a trap.”

Peter furiously grits his teeth, “Goodbye, Johnny.” He takes great pleasure in smashing the end call button and tossing his cell onto the nightstand. What a prick.

His phone starts vibrating again. He growls and just powers the useless thing off, indignation beating down his exhaustion and being the sole motivator in him getting off his ass to get his school work situated at his desk.

A small voice nags at him to switch his phone back on in case Aunt May calls. He fervently tells that voice to shut up, seeing as she hasn’t called in days and tonight will be absolutely no different. It appears that everyone important in his life is struggling with proper communication. How fun for him.

And speaking of fun for him! Amidst the pandemonium going on downstairs, his sensitive hearing picks up on a distinctive, piercing voice that he’d had the displeasure of hearing for the first time approximately one hour ago.

What.

Impulsively, he leaves his room and stomps back down the stairs, dealing with the increasingly annoying locks for _ages_ before he’s able to swing the door open. Peter steps into the bar and diligently scans the area for the murderer. He is, once again, very easy to find.

“-should be able to get a free drink around here, extravagant wealth be damned! I’m your most loyal customer and friend; If you can’t give me blow job or two on the house, then who can you give one too? No-”

Peter is heading towards the loud mouth with long, speedy strides that leave him with very few seconds to figure out what exactly he’s going to say to the guy. Shit, what can he say? As far as Deadpool knows, Peter’s just the ‘babe with no self preservation’ that he happened upon on the subway. This could have been thought through a bit more. Or at all.

Too late now. Peter slips into the barstool next to his.

“Hi.” Strong opening. He’s doing great.

“Hi?” Deadpool turns his head and they make what, again, Peter can only assume is eye contact. Following this, the man tenses like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. The bar quiets marginally.

As the staring contest draws out for almost a full minute, his anger is transformed into discomfort. The intensity manages to rise even higher, leading to him doing what he does best.

“I could’ve sworn I just saw you webbed to a wall,” He word vomits like the pro he is.

Peter’s expecting the sentence to incite some kind of verbal response from the guy. He doesn’t give off the impression that it’s hard to get him talking; It had seemed more likely that it’s hard to get him to stop.

Deadpool gives his expectations the middle finger and replies with a simple nod, body still taut as he looks away.

And now Peter feels awkward, his palms are itchy, and the bar sounds like it’s losing volume by the second. That’s a textbook recipe for a second wave of nonsense to come pouring from his stupid mouth, “I hear it’s pretty tricky to get out of before it dissolves. How’d you do it?”

He really needs to get out of this. As smoothly as possible. But then what? Call the cops again? That apparently didn’t work out the first time, and bringing them _here_ is a big no no. He’s going to lose his free bedroom upstairs if the shady business of Sister Margaret's gets brought to the police’s attention. Peter’s caught between a rock and a hard place in the worst of ways.

Postponing his moral dilemma for later tonight, he throws all of his effort into finding a way to exit in the chillest manner possible.

Deadpool completely throws off his chill before it has a chance, “Are you trying to chat me up?”

“Wha- _No_!” Peter’s complexion transforms into a violent shade of red as he stutters, “I- I was just curious!”

“Sure.”

Peter splutters, “I _was_ \- I don’t have to explain myself to you! I only came down here to-” Uh. “-ask Weasel a question.”

Genius. Now he just has to be a consistent genius and think of a normal roommate question to ask.

He looks at Weasel, who is standing behind the bar directly in front of Deadpool, forehead creased. “Weasel. Hey. Um.” Dammit. Oh- “What’s the wifi password?” Perfect. Smooth as silk. Normal as the setting on a washing machine.

“I already gave it to you,” Weasel, who obviously can’t hang, snatches the rug out from under his feet.

Wonderful. “Oh. Yeah. My bad.”

Peter painfully assesses that his rep is unsalvageable at this point, so it’s really for the best if he just goes back upstairs and never comes back down. It’s a good plan. One that he is fully ready to commit to following through on. His entire, cringing being agrees with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's five am. Sleep? I don't know her.


End file.
